


No Medicine is Strong Enough

by thechoicewasallmine



Series: Sometimes I Feel Like Giving Up [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anxiety, Deaf Clint Barton, Depression, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Mostly hurt though, Nightmares, Peter Parker Angst, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Purging, Self-Harm, Sensory Overload, Sick Peter Parker, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-02 11:17:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17263268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thechoicewasallmine/pseuds/thechoicewasallmine
Summary: Peter never wanted this. He didn’t ask for the entire team to breathe down his neck whenever he eats, or to insist that he reaches some absurd goal weight when he’s perfectly fine where he’s at. He doesn’t need to change.He just needs to stop day dreaming about killing himself. It’s getting distracting.Or: 5 times Peter doesn't ask the Avengers for help, and the one time he does.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is all Peter's point of view so please be aware that his thoughts are disordered. Specific trigger warnings for this chapter: mentions of eating disorders.  
> All mistakes are my own, feel free to point them out in the comments.

“Good morning, Mr. Parker. The time is 6:30 am. This is your wake-up call.”

From the grand bathroom that he still struggles to call his own, Peter calls, “You know you don’t have to do that if I’m already up, right FRI?” The toothbrush hanging from his mouth garbles his words, but he trusts the AI understands.

“Sir’s orders,” FRIDAY responds, voice as plain as the walls of his bedroom.  

He rolls his eyes and returns his attention to getting ready for school.

Since moving into the Avengers’ new Queens facility during the summer before his junior year, Peter has adapted to living with an omnipresent AI. But, despite the passing of nearly 5 months, he has yet to adapt to the lack of human contact. The other Avengers are around, somewhere, probably, but Peter isn’t an official Avenger and therefore isn’t at liberty to know those kinds of things.

When he lived with May, he was often alone but never lonely. Her presence filled their small apartment even when she was gone all day, working another double shift to make ends meet. She would leave traces of herself everywhere; sweet notes, little post-it reminders, perfectly packaged school lunches in the fridge, sweaters by the front door that allowed her scent to comfort him when he was the only one home. And _God, he misses her,_ he misses her so much he has to take a minute doubled over the bathroom sink to breathe. He stares at his knuckles, white from gripping the counter so hard, and forces himself to loosen each finger one by one before he cracks the granite. Again.

Peter doesn’t try to avoid thinking about his dead Aunt; in fact, he welcomes the pain that comes with her memory. At least he’ll never forget that she was real and that she loved him.

He looks up at his reflection and winces at the circles under his eyes. With no one around making sure that he’s in bed before midnight, he’s been stretching his patrols longer and longer. Sometimes he only has enough time to swing back to the tower to change before school.

The newfound independence makes him feel a little like he’s living at a high-tech summer camp. As grateful as he is to have his own floor in the most incredible building in NYC, it doesn’t feel like home. And he’s not sure it ever will.

Peter finishes in the bathroom, hands shaking only minutely, and gestures to turn off the lights as he returns to his bedroom and gathers his belongings for school.  

Grabbing the same ratty pair of sneakers that he’s been wearing since 8th grade, he hurries to the elevator that FRIDAY has waiting for him. Mr. Stark has offered to replace the shoes more times than he can count, but he can’t part ways with the beat-up Nikes. Uncle Ben bought him these shoes on the day he was accepted into Midtown and over the years Peter has had to make a habit of collecting things to remember his long list of dead relatives. A list that he can’t keep from growing.

Blinking quickly through the suffocating guilt that makes his eyes sting, he makes his way to the common kitchen, grabs a granola bar from the 3rd cabinet on the left, and begins the 10-minute walk to school.

He could have his own kitchen stocked with food, but Peter prefers the common floor to his own. He rarely runs into anyone when he’s there, but at least there’s a chance it could happen unlike the guaranteed loneliness of his private floor. Besides, Peter doesn’t care enough about food to ask FIRDAY to order any for him. He’s fine with grabbing whatever is available in the common kitchen so he doesn’t have to think about it. That has the added bonus of occasionally forcing him to skip a meal when he can’t find anything that isn’t already labeled with “Eating this would be treason” (Steve’s) or “Not yours” (Natasha) or “Thick thighs save lives” (Sam).

Not for the first time, Peter wishes that the brisk November air was enough to shake the ever-present lead from his bones. He shivers under his layers and pulls his beanie down further. Ever since the bite, Peter can’t stand the cold. Nothing sours his mood faster than a wet and blustery winter day.

A quick mental run through of the day’s agenda has Peter wishing he could turn around and crawl back into his warm bed.

History exam. Anatomy lab practical. Decathlon practice.

And it’s a Monday.

Patrolling on Monday’s is usually mind-numbingly boring. Not that he minds giving lost tourists directions or helping old ladies with their groceries, but he craves more. Something to unsettle the homesickness that is lodged in his stomach these days; longing for a home that no longer exist—for people who no longer exist.

“Hey, Penis Parker!” The nasally shout greets Peter when he pulls open the doors of Midtown Science and Tech. “Ready to embarrass yourself in anatomy today?”

Ignoring the harassment, Peter keeps trudging to his locker with his head down and thinks to himself, _well at least he’s consistent._

Flash Thompson has managed to insult him at least once a day since the school year began. Ned claims that he’s just jealous that Peter is living with The Tony Stark, but being jealous of an orphan who was taken in out of pity is hardly something to be jealous of.

Ned also doesn’t understand why Peter refuses to stand up to Flash or any one of the many people that treat him like shit, but the bullying is never as simple as a thrown fist that he can block. Instead, Peter gets sneers, sideways glances, and comments that he shouldn’t be able to hear. Flash’s outlandish hatred of him is an exception, but at least Flash doesn’t pretend to like him in an effort to get info on the Avengers like every person in the school has done since word got out about his living arrangements.

Well, every person aside from Ned and MJ. Peter hears their familiar footsteps before he spots them heading in his direction from down the hall. His spider-senses occasionally do more than drive him crazy.

“’Sup, nerd?” MJ doesn’t look up from her book until Ned comes up behind her and snatches it.

In his usual show of dramatics, Ned slams his shoulder into the locker next to Peter’s and loudly exclaims, “How was your weekend with the coolest super heroes in the world?” He’s wearing a grin that would normally bring one to Peter’s face but instead he finds himself biting back a scowl.

He doesn’t like lying to his best friends but admitting that he didn’t see a single person in the tower all weekend, much less one of the Avengers, sounds pathetic. Now even MJ looks interested in what he has to say and he’s going to have to disappoint them both.  

“It was awesome,” he replies, hoping the conversation would end there.

It doesn’t, of course.

“Hell no, dude, I’m gonna need way more than that,” Ned insists. “Your updates have been so lame recently; stop leaving out the good stuff! I’m your guy in the chair so I need to know details!”

Peter slams his locker slightly harder than necessary and starts walking away before he answers sheepishly, “Sorry guys, it’s classified.”

He almost laughs. As if he’d ever be trusted with classified information.

* * *

 

Peter does end up embarrassing himself in anatomy later that day, but it’s not for reasons that Flash had expected.

The practical examination set up in the lab station is straightforward: Dissect an unknown organ from an unknown organism and attempt to identify the class it belongs to. Easy.

Not easy: trying to be the first in your group of 4 to answer correctly if you want to receive an A.

And Flash is in Peter’s group. Because of course he is.

The group has been waiting for 30 minutes when their teacher, Mr. Hoff, finally calls them to the lab table where their organs are prepared. The teen tries to ignore the weird feeling he has about being the last group to complete the exercise, but something seems off about the whole situation. He can’t tell if it’s normal pre-assessment nerves or if it’s his spider senses alerting him to danger. Hoping it’s the former, he begins the dissecting the tiny eye.

It takes Peter less than 2 minutes to locate the tapetum lucidum behind the retina and to determine that it’s made up of refractive crystals. He rapidly narrows the list in his head.

_It’s an eye so eukarya, animalia… ok this definitely belongs to some kind of insect, it’s crazy small… tapetum lucidums are for night vision so nocturnal, probably a carnivore… Oh shit, there’s a gap in the tissue?… oh, it’s for nerve fibers! I’ve seen this before!_

Smiling with certainty, Peter drops his tools and runs to the hit bell in the middle of the lab station.

“Arachnida!” He exclaims confidently. “Specifically, Araneae.”

The room is silent for a beat.

“Mr. Parker, where did you steal the answer from?” Mr. Hoff demands, voice laced with anger and suspicion.

Peter frowns, confused. “What?”

“Was it the answer sheet in my desk? Or perhaps you hacked into my computer to steal the answer, mister computer whiz.” He spits the last two words and stalks to his desk at the front of the room. The whole class watches on the smart screen as he pulls up the grading system on his computer and scrolls down to Peter’s name, selecting today’s practical under the assignment tab. He already has his cursor on the ‘F’ when Peter starts pleading.

“Mr. Hoff, wait! I swear I didn’t cheat, I didn’t find the answer anywhere other than my brain! I’ve seen that exact eye structure before, that’s why I knew the answer.”

The teacher huffs in disbelief. “Oh, is that so? Please, Peter, share with the class where you’ve seen those crystalline deposits which are only visible under the most advanced light microscopes that our school has just received this month.”

Peter hesitates. He can’t exactly reveal to the class how many hours he spent researching spiders after the bite. After reading scholarly papers, lab reports, entire textbooks, and every article he could get his (or later, FRIDAY’s) hands on, he considers himself a bit of an expert on spiders.

“Um… well,” he stutters out, “I just really like spiders.”

The class laughs at him, not pitying, but mocking.

“Well, Mr. Parker, I hope your love for spiders outweighs your love for your perfect GPA. You will receive an F for today’s lab practical. Next time you try to pretend you have the answer to an impossible question, come up with a better story to explain it.”

“This isn’t fair, I didn’t cheat!” Peter is embarrassingly close to tears. His GPA is everything to him. Most days it feels like it’s all he has left. “Why would you give us this organ if you expected none of us to know the answer?”

“That’s enough!” Mr. Hoff slams his hand on the desk. “One more word from your smart mouth and I’ll lower your term grade to an F. Is that clear?”

Speechless, Peter nods.

The rest of the school day passes in a daze. Ned keeps trying to talk to him, but Peter can’t find it in him to explain what happened. He knows he’s worrying his friend, but he doesn’t know how to stop, so he doesn’t try. MJ hasn’t even tried to figure out what’s wrong and for once, Peter wishes she was the type to pry. He’s pretty sure a long vent session with his friends is exactly what he needs to deal with the embarrassment he faced earlier, but he doesn’t want to bother them with his whining.

When the final bell rings, Peter breathes fully for the first time since 5th period. He was too busy drowning in anxiety to eat anything during his lunch period and now he is ravenous. He has just under 45 minutes to grab a snack and get started on his homework before the hour-long decathlon practice starts. The granola bar he grabbed this morning is still untouched in his bag, but he knows he needs more fuel than that if he wants to have any success on patrol later.

He manages to scrape together $5 between the pockets in his jeans, backpack, and jacket, which is just enough for a sandwich from Delmar’s. If he hurries, he can eat it on his way back and still have time to get some Calc homework done.

His phone ringing shrilly interrupts Peter’s peaceful walk downtown. He has to do a double take when he checks the caller ID. Mr. Stark hasn’t called him from his personal phone in…a year? Not since before the ferry incident.

Something must be horribly wrong.

“Mr. Stark?’

“Kid,” comes the decidedly bored voice of his mentor, “care to explain why a teacher called me this afternoon—interrupting a very important investors’ meeting, might I add—to tell me that you cheated on an assignment worth 20% of your grade?”

“Mr. Hoff _called_ you!?” Peter knows that, as his legal guardian, Mr. Stark is the one in charge of handling school related matters, but he never thought something like this would reach the man.

“So, it _is_ true,” now his tone is dripping in disappointment, “What the hell, Peter? I thought you were smarter than that. Do you know how bad it looks to have an intern on my staff that has to cheat to make the grade? How am I supposed to defend your role in Stark Industries when there are thousands of students in this city that would kill for your spot and wouldn’t make a mistake like this?”

“Mr. Stark, you have to believe me, I didn’t cheat,” Peter insists.

“Look, kid,” Mr. Stark sighs, “I know you’ve been busy with school and Spiderman stuff but that’s not an excuse.”

“I’m not trying to make excuses!” he tries to reign in his anger before he says something he’ll regret. “The assignment involved dissecting the eye of a spider; of course I knew what it was! There’s spider DNA in me!”

“Right,” he drawls, voice a harsh contrast to Peter’s desperate pleading, “if you didn’t cheat, why is your teacher so convinced that you did that he felt the need to call me about it?”

“Because he’s a fucking asshole!” Peter snaps.

A sharp laugh comes through the phone.

“Yeah, Peter, welcome to the real world. Everyone is an asshole,” Mr. Stark clears his throat and Peter can practically hear him forcing himself to soften his tone. “Look, as a superhero with a secret identity, it’s your job to keep that identity separate from everything else. If you can’t come up with a reason to explain why you’re such an expert on spiders that doesn’t give away your vigilante life, then there’s a lot more to that life that you’re not ready for.”

Peter can’t find it in him to respond.

“That grade needs to come back up before the end of the semester. You know the rules, kiddo: bad grades, no Spiderman.”

With that, he hangs up.

Peter stares at his phone in shocked silence for a moment before roughly pocketing the device. What he really wants to do is hurl it at the nearest building, but the small part of his brain not taken over by fury tells him that it would only make this situation worse.

He’s not actually sure it could get worse. Mr. Stark is disappointed in him. He doesn’t think Peter is taking his responsibility as Spiderman seriously and he was even willing to believe that Peter would cheat on an assignment.

He’s always known that the rest of the team thinks lowly of him, he’s just some kid that they got stuck with, after all, but to hear his idol accuse him of cheating?

Peter wonders if this is what suffocating feels like.

He ignores the shaking of his hands continues his walk on autopilot, trying to sort through his racing thoughts. Where was he even going?

Oh, right, the deli.

Peter scoffs at himself. He can’t believe he thought for even a second that he deserved to eat today after the disaster that happened in school. He fucked up big time and the last thing he should be doing right now is indulging in something that he hasn’t earned.

While he’s already started spiraling down a self-destructive hole, he figures he might as well skip decathlon practice. Mr. Stark is already mad at him, now MJ, Ned, and the whole team will be mad at him, too. It’s fitting that the people in his life hate him as much as he hates himself. Things are easier that way.  

Peter ducks into the nearest alley to change and web up his backpack. His veins are thrumming with adrenaline, already anticipating the exertion to come. His world narrows down to his webs and his spider sense.  

Patrols have been starting this way often. The desperation to be helpful, useful in any way drives him onward, ignoring physical needs as simple as eating and sleeping. He doesn’t deserve such luxuries when there are people on the streets that need his protection.

And if he lets some of the criminals land a few hits to quiet the noise in his head, well, no one has to know.

* * *

 

It’s nearly 11pm when Peter becomes aware of himself. It took over 6 hours of crime fighting to quiet the self-disgust, but, finally, he can breathe again.

He decides to swing back to the tower in his suit instead of changing and walking back like he usually does. His mood is decent enough now that his head is clear, and he helped enough people tonight that he can allow himself a snack before bed if he hurries. 

If he eats after midnight when he’s not out patrolling, the food will sit inside of him all night and then turn to fat. After learning about digestion in AP Bio, he refuses to eat before bed.

If he’s not going to be the best in anatomy, he can at least be the skinniest.

Peter takes note of the night’s injuries as he flies through the city. Nothing broken, at least, not anymore. If he cracked a finger or two when he first started patrol he wouldn’t know it now. There are some heavier bruises that might linger until the morning, but other than that, he got through the night without anything serious.

He pretends to ignore the disappointment that he feels at the distinct lack of physical pain because acknowledging that would mean acknowledging how fucked up things have gotten, and Peter is a pro at ignoring his problems until they explode in his face.

When Peter gets back to the Tower, he’s unsurprised to hear most of the residents still going about their business as if it was the middle of the day. Being surrounded by other superhumans and workaholics has not done his sleep schedule any good. Unlike Captain Rogers and Bucky, he still needs about as much sleep as he did before the bite. Whether or not he gets that amount is another matter.

He doesn’t bother taking off his suit before he heads to the common floor; his window of opportunity for eating is rapidly closing.

Peter inspects the fridge for something acceptable as a post-workout snack and finds two honeycrisp apples in the fruit drawer. 80 calories in each, no fat, but also no protein. Fuck, he’s going to have to eat something else. His mouth is already watering, his stomach growling ferociously.  

He rummages through the cabinet until he finds the powdered peanut butter that Pepper bought when she was trying to fit into her wedding dress but only ate once because it was “the most artificially artificial garbage I’ve ever tasted”.

She’s not wrong, it is disgusting, but it only has 1.5 grams of fat per serving while still providing 5 grams of protein. Peter hasn’t earned pickiness.

He grabs a plate and a knife and is just about to start cutting the apples when the back of his neck tingles. He looks up as Bucky enters the kitchen.

The super soldier frowns at him.

“Those are mine,” he gestures to the apples.

Peter freezes.

“I mean, it’s fine,” Bucky is saying, “I can find something else to eat.”

But Peter hardly hears him, his brain already screaming, thoughts coming too fast.

Oh, fuck Peter almost ate food that didn’t belong to him.

He almost ate food that belonged to _Bucky_ and now the man is looking at him like he’s disappointed, like he was looking forward to these apples and Peter took that away from him. He almost took a simple pleasure away from a man that was tortured and brainwashed for seventy years because—what? He felt like he deserved them after stopping 6 lousy muggings and a few petty thefts? He was going to eat food that he doesn’t even deserve in the first place and now Bucky is _sad_ and Peter feels like he’s drowning.

He all but shoves the food away from himself, only just managing to keep the apples from rolling off the counter.

“Nah, you have them,” he hears his voice say, doing a terrible job of concealing his panic, “I was only looking for food ‘cause I was bored.”

“Are you sure? You just got back from patrol, didn’t you? You must be hungry.” There’s something in Bucky’s expression that makes Peter want to scream. It almost looks like concern.

He smiles tightly, trying to shove down the urge to climb the walls and get the hell out of there.

“Totally sure,” he reassures the man, “I ate earlier.”

“We can split them—”

“Actually, you know what, I just remembered I have some last-minute studying to do. Gotta go.”

Peter ducks around Bucky and all but runs to the elevator. When the doors close he has to grab the railing to keep from collapsing.

Oh god.

Never mind the humiliation of almost being caught _eating,_ but he definitely just made an idiot of himself in front of The Winter Solider. As if the rest of the team didn’t already see him as some stupid kid; he can’t even have a normal conversation without freaking out.

Once in the privacy of his room, Peter lets the harsh breaths he was holding back come out and frantically tears off his suit. His thoughts are still loud, still way too loud, and he can’t _think._

He’s developed a few tricks to make this feeling go away and after the incident in the kitchen he has to do something. Not for the first time, Peter is grateful that no one pays enough attention to him to notice that he stole a treadmill from the staff gym on the ground floor last month. It was easy enough to sneak out with it, but the thing is twice as big as he is, and it took some maneuvering to get it up 37 flights of stairs.

But it was worth it. He can’t do this in the Avengers gym, not with the risk of someone watching.

He marches over to the treadmill in the corner of his room and, in nothing but a pair of boxers, he starts running. He doesn’t bother warming up, he was patrolling all night and besides, any injuries would heal quickly enough. He has to sprint for 7 miles before his breaths stop out coming in sharp gasps and by then he’s dizzy either from lack of oxygen or lack of food. Probably both.

Peter doesn’t even need to think about the calculations anymore. 7 miles; 30 mph pace (not his fastest, but he hasn’t eaten a full meal in a few days); 14 minutes of sprinting; 700 calories burned.

He doesn’t stop though; he can’t. He has to keep running until he no longer feels like ripping his skin open because god, he _wants_ to. It would be so easy, the relief so immediate he can almost feel it. But he made a promise. He swore to Aunt May that he’d never take a blade to his skin again, not since the day she walked in on him cleaning up the aftermath.

He’ll never forget the look on her face and he’ll never forgive himself for putting it there.

A promise is a promise.

Peter keeps running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So excited to finally be posting this, I've been working on it for months. It's mostly written, so updates will be weekly. There are definitely parts of this fic that I'm less proud of and overall I think it's easy to tell that this is only the second story I've ever written, but in general I'm super excited for you all to read it and can't wait to hear what you think!  
> Also: May's death was left purposefully ambiguous in this story. Peter lives in the (conveniently-located) Avengers Tower, and legally, Tony Stark is his guardian. The details aren't always relevant to the plot and lord knows I struggle with plot enough as it is so let's leave things at that and move on, shall we?  
> Come say hey on tumblr: thechoicewasallmine


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this a day early to say thank you for the response on the first chapter. So excited to hear what you all think of this one!

Peter is exhausted.

Running 25 miles last night after patrolling for 6 hours and not eating for a few days will do that to you, or so the logical voice in his brain tells him.

He tells that voice to fuck off.

Sitting up, Peter bites back a groan at the throb in his head. It seems like he always has a headache these days, but this ache is worse than usual.

So, it’s going to be one of “those” days.

Since developing his powers 3 years ago, Peter’s had days when his over active senses have caused him trouble, and if he’s not mindful, if he forgets to give himself moments where he can let his senses rest, he gets hit with sensory overload.

At least, that’s what he calls his little episodes. He’s never actually told anyone about them; doesn’t see the point in doing so, really. Telling May would have just added to the list of reasons she had to worry about Peter and he’s certainly not going to tell the team about it. He knows that they’ve all worked through injuries including Cap’s gunshot wounds, Clint’s broken hand, Natasha’s concussion, and Tony’s cracked ribs. And those are just a few from the past year. Peter is not going to complain about a little headache.

Never mind the fact that this has been happening more and more frequently over the past few months. He’s had worse. He’ll be fine.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee drags him out of his warm bed and down to the common floor. One of the many perks of living in the Avengers Tower is that the stuff is always around, and no one seems to notice that Peter practically survives off caffeine because everyone else does too. Granted, everyone else is at least double his age, but no one cares enough to limit his intake.

The hot liquid burns his mouth, and the flavor tastes horribly strong this morning, but he needs the caffeine boost. He swallows past the nausea and gulps down a cup.

Sundays are team training days; they try to find each other’s weaknesses in the training room so they aren’t unexpectedly exploited on the field. Not that Peter gets much field time, but for some reason the team still lets him attend.

His biggest weakness is hand-to-hand combat. He’s fast and he’s strong, but he’s never quite sure what to do with his punches and kicks in order to be the most effective at neutralizing a threat so he spends a lot of his training time with Steve and Bucky. Peter refuses to hit anyone else unless Tony is in his armor. The risk of losing control and hurting one of his teammates is low, but as long as it’s there, Peter will stick to the super soldiers.

Said soldiers join him in the kitchen a moment later. They’re both still wearing pajama pants and t-shirts, hair messy, rubbing sleep from their eyes. Peter tries not to flinch too visibly when Bucky flicks the lights on and is grateful that neither of the men find is strange that he was sitting in the dark.

“Morning,” Steve says pleasantly as he makes a beeline for the coffee pot.

“Mornin’,” Peter clears his throat when his voice comes out as nothing more than a whisper.

Bucky just grunts in his direction, plopping himself in one of the kitchen stools across from Peter and making grabby hands at the mug of coffee Steve brings his way.

“I was gonna make us some eggs,” Steve gestures to himself and Bucky, “You want any?”

Peter is about to say no when he remembers his encounter with Bucky in the kitchen earlier this week. He doesn’t want to be too obvious and risk raising suspicion about his eating habits.

Not that he has anything to hide, it’s not like he’s doing anything wrong.

But eating with the guys will keep them out of his hair, and that’s all he wants, really. He wants to be left alone to the habits that help him get through the day. Besides, eggs are a good source of protein and as long as he avoids fat for the rest of the day he’ll be fine.

“Sure, that’d be great, thanks,” Peter manages to smile at Steve in a manner that he hopes is genuine enough. He’s out of practice.

The three of them sit in companionable silence while Steve cooks, none of them awake enough to engage in small talk. They still have 2 hours to kill before training starts and it wouldn’t be surprising if Bucky and Steve spent most of that time eating.

Peter isn’t sure how his metabolism matches up to the super soldiers. He knows he’s enhanced, of course, but he doesn’t even eat half of what they do, so his body must work a lot slower than theirs. He often catches himself staring at the men while they’re eating; he can’t help himself. Peter wishes he was able to eat as much as them and still look the way they do, but he worked hard to get rid of his baby fat and he’s not trying to get it back.

So when Steve hands him a plate as full as his own, Peter’s eyes widen.

“Um,” he swallows, “that’s a lot of food.” More than he’s eaten at once in…a lot longer than Peter is willing to admit to himself.

“Is it?” Steve asks innocently. “Your metabolism is faster than the average person, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah, but not as fast as yours.”

“Oh, sorry, I wasn’t sure,” he takes the plate back and starts transferring some of the eggs onto his own plate. “Say when.”

Peter maybe lets Steve take away too much and would have let him keep going if not for Bucky’s pointedly raised eyebrow.

“When,” he takes the plate back, “thanks.”

He’s still not sure if he’ll be able to choke down what’s left, be he figures if he doesn’t try the guys will start to ask questions. He sucks in a breath and digs in as enthusiastically as he can manage and has to fight down the urge to spit out his first forkful.

The taste of sulfur is so overwhelming that Peter’s eyes start to water at the sheer unpleasantness of it. He can feel every salt molecule drying out his mouth while the pepper all but sets him on fire. He chokes down a few bites and tries not to guzzle his coffee too frantically.

As soon as his attention is off the assault in his mouth, the sounds of the two men eating near him become too much to bear. He can hear the food landing in their stomachs and it’s all he can do to avoid throwing up at the mental image that provides. Their heartbeats are calm and steady while Peter’s frantic pulse throbs in his ears. He has to get out of here.

“I’m gonna go eat in my room,” he says as evenly as he can manage, already moving so the guys don’t have a chance to stop him. “My friends want to FaceTime.”

He trusts that Bucky and Steve don’t know what FaceTime is and don’t care enough to ask, and makes his escape.

Up in his room, Peter dumps the remainder of his breakfast in the trash and puts his plate in the bathroom sink, hoping that his senses allow him to focus long enough to remember it later.

He still has over an hour before he has to be down on the training floor so, hoping he can sleep off the worst of this sensory overload, Peter sets an alarm on his phone, orders FRIDAY to block out all light, and promptly falls asleep.

* * *

 

When Peter lands on his ass for the fifth time in a row he lets out a growl of frustration. “Fuck!”

“Watch it, kid,” Steve snaps at him, having lost patience with his sloppiness before they even stepped on the mat. “Get up, square up, eyes up.”

He makes it sound so easy. Just get up. Don’t worry about the faucet you can hear dripping 45 floors below you, or the clothes that feel like knives on your skin, or the dog barking a block away. Ignore the dust particles floating in front of your face, the smell of the toothpaste that Clint used this morning, or the sweat that feels like acid pouring down your face.

Peter grits his teeth and gets up.

He tries to mirror Cap’s fighting stance; the ease with which he holds himself on the balls of his feet, but Peter’s instincts keep causing him to flinch whenever Nat moves her hand while speaking with Clint across the room and he’s forced to be ready for threats from all angles.

So when Cap aims a quick jab at his head, he only just manages to dodge it and the man abruptly stands straight and puts his hands on his hips.

“Are you even paying attention?” he demands.

“Yeah, yes, I—” Peter blinks through a wave of dizziness when he tries to meet Cap’s glare, “I’m good.”

Steve sighs, clearly annoyed with Peter’s mistakes, and the two lower back into their ready positions.

Peter’s heart is pounding in his chest, his spider sense keeping his adrenaline levels high, and every beat feels like it’s going to crack his ribs. The bones on which Steve has landed a hit over the past 20 minutes all feel broken, though he knows the soldier would never hit him that hard. Everything _burns_ and he’s not sure how much longer he’s going to last.

But he can’t tap out yet. He won’t. He hasn’t earned a break.

The two are circling each other on the mat when Peter makes his move. He feigns a kick at Cap’s legs before using his other leg to launch himself over the soldier, grabbing the man’s shoulders and coming down on his back hard to send him sprawling onto the mat. Face first.

There are whoops of encouragement from the rest of the team watching on the sidelines and despite the added noise making Peter feel like his brain is splitting open, he grins.

Cap gets to his feet and faces Peter, smile turning predatory, and they resume their dance.

10 minutes later, after being pinned 3 more times, Peter is contemplating his next move when his vision blurs. He loses sight of his opponent for a split second, and before his overloaded brain can process the information, Cap’s fist is coming at his face—quickly. He hears the impact more than he feels it and the force is enough to send him flying backwards.

Peter doesn’t think he lands on his head but the whole world is spinning and he’s not quite sure where his head is.

There are shouts from all around him and he can’t focus on any of them over the pounding of blood in his ears. He reaches up to make sure his head is still attached to his body and his fingers come away red. That’s when he notices the blood in his mouth and the metallic taste almost makes him gag.

His senses sharpen again all at once.

“Shit, Peter, you were staring right at me! Why didn’t you move?” Cap is standing over him, furious.

“What the hell was that, kid?" Tony demands as he steps around Steve, coming to kneel at Peter’s side. “I thought you were ready to fight with the big boys.”

“Is this the same kid that kicked your ass in Germany, Wilson?” Clint wonders and Peter has to hide his flinch because he’s not supposed to be able to hear the archer whispering from across the room.

“Alright, alright,” Bruce is suddenly next to Tony, “give him a second.”

The doctor puts a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder and the teen tries to focus on it with all of his senses; trying to reduce the input. It doesn’t work, but then, it never does on days like this.

“—hear me?” Peter snaps to attention. Bruce looks worried and that’s the last thing Peter wants.

“Sorry—yeah, I’m okay,” he gasps out. “Just…got the wind knocked out of me.”

Bruce looks skeptical. “Does anything feel broken?”

 _Yeah, everything,_ Peter thinks to himself.

What he says is: “No.”

His breaths are coming out too fast, but he can’t clamp down the panic when his vision keeps blurring. All of his senses are completely overwhelmed, and he feels like he’s drowning.  

“Peter, you’re shaking,” Tony notes with a frown.

The teen opens his mouth to reassure his mentor, but downstairs a desk chair scrapes across the floor and he has to snap his teeth together to keep from groaning at the knives piercing his skull. It’s all too much; the pain too overwhelming, and Peter wishes that Cap had just knocked him out.

“Jesus, Steve, how hard did you hit the kid?” Bucky asks incredulously from where he’s standing behind Tony.

“I was pulling my punches!” Steve insists, guilt clear on his face.

“I—no, it’s not—argh,” Peter groans when he tries to focus on Steve and the lights in the gym send pain radiating through his skull and all the way down his spine. “Not the hit—not hurt. I—" he clamps his mouth shut again when the smell of Pepper’s lunch turns his stomach from where she’s eating 6 floors up.

“What do you mean you’re not hurt?” Bruce asks.

“Physically, I’m—” he sucks in a gasp of pain and shuts his eyes, “fine, I’m fine. This happens…just—it’s a lot.”

He can’t stop the groans he’s letting out as his senses keep focusing on a new threat. He puts his hands over his ears and keeps his eyes shut but it doesn’t help, and he can _feel_ the confusion in the room. God, the Avengers must think he’s lost his mind.

“Mr. St—ah” he tries, “it’s my sen—senses…” he can hardly get the words out, gasping more than breathing at this point. “Everything…eleven.”

He hopes Mr. Stark gets the message because Peter isn’t sure he can form anymore words without breaking down completely. As it is, he’s barely holding it together between the blinding pain and the ceaseless panic that his spider sense is causing him to feel.

Mercifully, the man understands.

“Oh shit, sensory overload?”

Peter tries to nod.

“FRIDAY, lights,” Tony barks, and the room is plunged into darkness. “Bruce, Sam, get him to his room. Quietly. And make sure he’s not lying about anything being broken.” He turns to Steve and Bucky. “You and you,” he jabs his finger at them, “come with me.”

Mr. Stark turns on his heel and stalks out of the room, Steve and Bucky close behind him.

Dr. Banner and Sam each take one of Peter’s arms and haul him to his feet. He moans when the motion causes the pounding in his head to double and has to swallow passed a wave of nausea. He is both painfully aware and unable to focus on what is happening as he’s half-dragged to his room where FRIDAY already has the lights off. Somehow, Sam gets him settled on his bed and out of his bloodied and sweaty t-shirt without causing him to vomit all over himself. Bruce is suddenly there with a wet towel and helps him clean his face, but the taste of copper doesn’t disappear. Peter briefly wonders if drinking bleach would make it go away.

“Peter,” Bruce is whispering, but the teen still flinches, “I need to make sure your nose isn’t broken, okay?”

He nods and steels his teeth, ready for another onslaught of pain.

Dr. Banner is gentle, but every time he touches Peter’s skin it feels like he’s being stabbed; like every one of the man’s fingertips is searing his flesh. He holds in the whimpers trying to crawl up his throat, the last thing he needs is for Bruce to think he was lying to him about having a break.

“All clear,” he confirms after a minute. “I’ll go get you some ice.”

He leaves, and Peter startles when Sam puts a hand on his shoulder. He was too distracted by the whirring of the building’s many elevators to remember that the man was sitting next to him.  

“C’mon, let’s get your shoes off so you can lie down,” he whispers.

Peter lets Sam manhandle him until he’s securely under his blanket, eyes still tightly shut and teeth clenched, breathing labored. Bruce returns with an icepack wrapped in a towel and helps the teen guide it to his nose. This time, Peter can’t help the gasp he lets out when his senses register the ice and he has to fight down the instinct to get as far away from it as possible.

“Did that hurt?” Bruce worries.

“S’just cold,” Peter mumbles into the towel.

Sam lets out a soft laugh. “That’s the point, kid.”

Right.

“Do you have any iBuprophen in here?” Bruce asks. “Maybe it’ll quiet that headache of yours.”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, I took some earlier.” Peter doesn’t see the point in telling Bruce that his metabolism burns through everything so fast that medicine isn’t effective anymore. Or that the one time he tried to take enough Advil to reduce his pain he gave himself an ulcer. There’s nothing the man can do about it; no reason to worry him.

“Did it help?”

“Yeah.” There’s no remorse behind the lie; Peter just wants to be left alone.

“Okay, we’ll give you some peace and quiet now. Keep that ice on for 20 minutes and let FRIDAY know if you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

The second the men are out of the room, Peter tosses the ice aside, turns his face into his pillow, and lets out the groans of agony that he’s been holding in. The sound of his own anguish adds to the knives piercing his skull until he can do nothing more but moan and gasp as wave after wave of pain rips up and down his body. Every sound within a 10-block radius makes its way to Peter’s ears; some come one after the other, others all at once. He tries to focus on one sound but is unable to find anything to ground himself, lost in the onslaught of sensory input. This continues for what feels like hours—but is probably closer to minutes—and by the time he’s able to stop vocalizing his pain, Peter’s throat hurts almost as much as his head.

For a moment, he doesn’t realize why the influx of sounds has slowed, until he hears a clear voice from 9 floors up. The voice is angry, and it takes Peter longer than it should to recognize who it belongs to.

“What do you mean ‘it just happens sometimes’?” Tony is shouting. “Why am I just finding out about this?”

Peter hears the heartbeats of the victims of Mr. Stark’s rage and feels sorry for the two super soldiers.

“Look, I didn’t think it was worth mentioning,” Steve says gently, “it’s nothing we can’t handle. I had no idea that Peter deals with it, too.”

“Besides,” Bucky adds, “there’s nothing you can do.”

Peter can practically feel Mr. Stark’s indignance.

“Nothing I can do?” Tony challenges. “Are we all forgetting the time I built an iron man suit in a cave? Did that really happen, or did I dream it? FRIDAY?”

“That was real, boss.”

“We’ve tried those sound cancelling headphones, but they just turn everything into loud white noise,” says Steve. “That’s worse than being able to hear you breathe from 2 floors away.”

“And honestly, as long as we’re taking care of ourselves it’s not a problem. I can’t even remember the last time my enhanced hearing gave me a headache,” Bucky explains.

After a pause, Tony sighs. “You know I’m not going to let this go.”

“Yeah,” Steve sounds like he’s smiling, “I know.”

“Any other symptoms I should know about? Anything other than the headaches?”

“No,” Bucky says simply, and Peter can hear his metal arm move as he shrugs, “I’ve never had any other issues.”

“Same here, the kid’s probably through the worst of it already. I’m sure he’ll sleep it off.”

“He’s right,” Bruce’s voice enters the conversation. “Peter will be fine. No breaks, he just has a nasty headache.”

“Oh, thank god,” Steve’s relief is nearly palpable.

“Do we know if this has happened to the kid before?” Sam asks.

“No, but I’m not sure he’d tell us if it has,” Bucky points out.

“Sounds like two other people I know," scoffs Tony. 

Peter can practically hear the man glowering at Captain Rogers and Bucky.

“Yeah, like you’re one to talk,” Steve remarks playfully.

“Alright, alright, we’re done here,” Mr. Stark grumbles. Peter can hear him smirking around the words. “Get out, I have work to do.”

Peter tries to hold onto his mentor’s voice to keep out another assault of sound, but it turns out to be unnecessary as his hearing seems to be finished tormenting him. He hardly gets out a sigh of relief before the next wave of his sensory overload sends him bolting for the bathroom where he leans over the toilet and is violently ill.

He can smell _everything._ Every food item in every fridge in the building, all of the half-eaten, partially decomposed food in the dumpsters out back, the absurd number of perfume bottles, deodorants, and candles in the tower, every resident’s natural body odor—all of it. The pleasant odors combine with the awful ones until every breath makes him gag. He tries to hold his nose but then he can’t breathe, and the taste of vomit in his mouth is enough to make him continue retching regardless. His throat, already sore, burns so intensely that Peter feels like he’s throwing up fire. He curses himself for forcing down those eggs this morning; they taste even worse coming up than they did going down.

Peter is thankful for the privacy. He must be a sight right now. The violent gagging hardly lets up long enough for him to breathe, spit is running down his chin, tears rolling down his face. He would give anything for this to stop and finds himself hoping that he just passes out soon.

It wouldn’t be the first-time sensory overload caused him to lose consciousness, but the last time it happened, Aunt May was there to take care of him. Peter is suddenly crushed by the weight of his loneliness and for a moment he’s just a sick kid that wants a hug and someone to tell him it’s all going to be okay.

That longing is quickly replaced by shame for thinking that he deserves someone to nurse him back to health. He did this to himself. He has to deal with the consequences.

Current round of vomiting over for now, Peter grabs some toilet paper to wipe his mouth before slumping against the wall and bringing his knees to his chest. He breathes through his mouth as steadily as possible, knowing that the relief is going to be short-lived.

God, it _hurts._ His head is throbbing, his throat burns, and his muscles ache from being tensed for so long. All he wants is to curl up in his soft bed, but he knows from experience that he’ll be throwing up for at least the next hour. Resting his head on his knees, Peter can’t help the sobs that start to escape, feeling every bit the scared 17-year-old that he pretends not to be.

That spider should have chosen a worthier host all those years ago. If Peter can’t deal with the few side effects that his powers give him, who the hell is he to call himself Spiderman?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That "Peter Parker Needs a Hug" tag coming in strong with this chapter.
> 
> I'm thrilled that so many people like this story so far! Thank you guys for leaving comments and kudos on the last chapter, I reply to every comment and they always make my day!  
> I decided to post this early despite the fact that I'm in the middle of completely rewriting chapter three *laughs nervously* Here's to hoping that gets finished by next week. Plot is hard, y'all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so tired of staring at this chapter and as a result, it's hardly edited. As always feel free to point out mistakes in the comments.

The next morning, Peter stumbles into the kitchen, too out of it to listen to his spider sense telling him that someone is waiting there. So when Bruce starts talking, Peter can’t help the whimper he lets out as the sound pierces through his still-sensitive head.

He waves his hand to stop the doctor mid-sentence and then brings his hand to his chest, rubbing it in a small circle. _Please,_ Peter signs, _no voicing. My head hurts._

The surprise on Bruce’s face momentarily overtakes his concern. _Oh, you know ASL?_

The teen resists the urge to roll his eyes and instead moves his fist down once. _Yeah._

_How?_

_My friend’s little sister is Deaf._ Peter spent as much time with Ned’s family as he did with his aunt and uncle growing up. The language came naturally to him.

The man takes a second to recover. _Forgive me, I’m not fluent._

Peter could have guessed that. Dr. Banner may have 7 PhDs, but by the clumsy, halting movements of his hands, it’s clear that none of them are in American Sign Language. This feels like one of those moments where you realize your idols are just human (or, in this case, sometimes human). Peter has had lots of those moments over the past few months.

He understands that Dr. Banner is a busy man, but his teammate is Deaf. Sure, Clint wears hearing aids most of the time, but there’s no reason a man of Bruce’s intelligence shouldn’t be fluent by now. Unless, of course, he hasn’t tried.

 _I want to know how you’re feeling this morning,_ the man signs choppily.

If Dr. Banner hasn’t gotten around to learning the language of his housemate of 6 years, why should Peter expect that he’ll listen to him?

_I’m fine._

_You said your head hurts,_ Bruce reminds him.

Peter shrugs and repeats the sign for ‘fine’ to mean: _it’s fine._ He turns his back to the doctor, hoping that’ll be the end of the conversation, and busies himself with pulling on his coat.

Bruce taps his hand on the table, just hard enough for Peter to feel the vibrations where his hip rests against it. It’s a subtle gesture used to gain someone’s attention when signing, but the noise is enough to make Peter flinch as he turns back around.

 _Why aren’t you eating before you leave?_ Bruce asks.

Peter’s stomach turns at the thought of food. He’s hungry enough to be dizzy, but he’s in no shape to force something down right now.

_I spent the whole night puking, not trying to do it again._

Bruce’s face morphs into his ‘concerned doctor mode’ and Peter tries not to sigh.

 _How often does this happen? Is it always that bad? What are your symptoms? Are you sleeping enough_ —”

Peter waves a hand again to cut him off. Trying to follow the doctor’s sloppy signs and indistinct fingerspelling is hurting his head more than speaking would.

_I have to go to school._

Bruce frowns. _Are you sure you’re well enough for that?_

The teen shrugs again.

_Alright, what time do you get home?_

Peter is _not_ offended that Bruce has to ask that question despite the fact that they’ve lived together for 5 months.

_2:30._

_Come see me after school. Let’s see if we can stop this from happening again._

_You can’t—_

Bruce signs right over him. _I want to try, ok?_

This time, Peter does sigh. _Ok._

* * *

 

School is, predictably, hell.

The fluorescent lights have never felt brighter, and Peter swears that every student is shouting across the hall to purposefully ruin his life.

“Bro, are you dying?”

Ned is suddenly right next to him, flanked by MJ, and since when has Peter been unable to hear them coming?

“Nah, I’m good,” he reassures his friends. “Just a headache.” Before becoming friends with MJ, Ned and Peter used to sign to each other all the time. Now, he uses his voice to avoid leaving her out of the conversation. Besides, there’s no use in trying to limit noise in the crowded halls of Midtown.

MJ raises one eyebrow. “I didn’t know you could get headaches.”

“Sensory overload,” Ned explains, saving Peter from having to do so himself. “Perks of having super hearing and a super nose. It happens.”

Peter snorts. “Yeah. Lucky me.” He closes his locker as quietly as he can, but it still makes him wince. “Dr. Banner thinks he can fix it.”

Ned’s eyes widen comically. Peter would laugh at him if he had the energy.

“Dr. Banner? As in, The Dr. Banner? As in, Dr. Bruce Banner? Bruce Banner? The Hulk? My best friend is going to be examined by the Hulk. Oh my god this is the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me, you know, other than my best friend being Spider Man and meeting Tony Stark and—”

“Ned,” MJ cuts him off and gestures to Peter, “headache, remember?”

“Oh shit, sorry bro,” Ned whispers sheepishly.  

Peter glowers at him as menacingly as he can manage. His friends laugh.

“Pretty sure you shouldn’t be here right now,” MJ tells him.

He shrugs. “Yeah, well, superheroes don’t get sick days.”

“Peter,” Ned gives him a _look,_ “Please don’t tell me you’re patrolling tonight.”

“C’mon, man, don’t do that. You know I have to.”

“Ok, but you literally don’t,” MJ rolls her eyes. “The city will survive for a day.”

Peter swallows roughly and blinks a few times, hoping his face hasn’t given him away in the second it took for his brain to ruin his already-guaranteed-to-be-shitty day.

Peter knows that MJ cares about him, and she only meant to suggest that he should take a day off to take care of himself. But, as usual, Peter’s brain decides to twist his friend’s words until he’s convinced that she’s saying he’s insignificant, useless, a failure, and that the city is better off without him.

 “The city might survive, but I won’t,” Peter admits. “I need to be out there.” He lets only some of his desperation seep into his tone. He doesn’t exactly want his friends to know that the only thing keeping him going is the possibility of saving a life while out on patrol; the idea that, if he was gone, the citizens of Queens would be in danger.

“Look just—just be careful, alright?” Ned sighs, and immediately Peter is swallowed by guilt for making his friends worry about him. He needs to do a better job of convincing them that he’s fine; they shouldn’t have to waste their time wondering if Peter got through the night.

“Always.”

* * *

 

“Look, I meant it when I said I was fine, ok? You don’t have to waste your time.”

“Peter,” Bruce sighs for the 4th time, “Your well-being is not a waste of time.”

“My being is well. Can I go now?”

“No.”

Now it’s Peter’s turn to sigh.

The doctor has been scrolling through the results of Peter’s blood work for the last 10 minutes but hasn’t shared any of the results with him yet. The waiting is driving him crazy. He initially didn’t expect the tests to show anything significant, but every time Dr. Banner narrows his eyes at the screen in front of him, Peter’s heartrate increases. He hasn’t seen a doctor since the bite and therefore doesn’t know the extent of the genetic changes his body went through. Biochemistry is Peter’s _thing_ ; he knows that his DNA has to be mutated for him to do the things that he can, but he doesn’t know the details of those mutations and, worse, he doesn’t understand the stability of them. For all he knows, that spider could have given him cancer.

“How many hours of sleep do you get?” Dr. Banner startles Peter out of his thoughts.

“Uh, I don’t know…” The question catches him off guard and he takes a beat to calculate an average, “maybe 4? 5?”

Bruce raises his eyebrows, but otherwise doesn’t comment.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

And, fuck, Peter can’t lie about that, not when the man has his blood glucose levels right in front of him.

“No,” he admits softly.

Dr. Banner frowns with concern. “Still feeling nauseous?”

“Just not hungry,” Peter shrugs, going for the half-truth.

Bruce nods thoughtfully. “I see.” He pauses, considering. “And how often do you feel ‘not hungry’?”

Peter freezes. Does he know? He can’t know. His blood work shouldn’t show anything abnormal, he’s been careful.

He recovers a beat too slowly. “Huh?”

“Peter.” The doctor removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “You’re smart so I’ll give it to you straight.” He waves a hand and a graphic of the teen’s blood results is pulled up in front of him. There are numbers highlighted in red all over. Peter swallows roughly.

“Your blood glucose is low—extremely low. Your liver enzymes are all over the place, your blood pressure is low, and your electrolytes are a mess. I’m counting deficiencies in all of your fat-soluble vitamins in addition to vitamin B12, zinc, and calcium.  Your blood is high in ketones and your urine has an excess of urea. Your body weight puts you at a BMI of 17 and you just told me that you haven’t eaten since yesterday,” he waves his hand again, sharply this time, and FRIDAY makes the graphic disappear. He meets Peter’s eyes when he asks, “How long has this been going on?”

Peter’s face remains unchanged while his body is thrust into fight or flight mode. His heart is racing, he feels light headed and shaky, and he starts to sweat. There’s no way all of those changes should show up in his lab results, it’s not like he hasn’t eaten in months. He eats almost every day and sometimes even more than once a day. He’s not thin enough for this to be a real problem; not sick enough for this to be a problem and he’s definitely not ready to have this conversation.

“What are you talking about?” Peter knows his innocent face is good; he’s had lots of practice.

For a moment, Dr. Banner’s eyes flash green, and he steps back to take a deep breath.

“Do you really want me to spell it out for you, Peter?” The man’s voice is low and measured. He’s angry. He must not believe Peter’s lie; he needs to try harder.

“No, no. I get what those results are pointing to, but I don’t understand why. Not eating for a day shouldn’t have such immediate results, especially not with the fat-soluble vitamins…and ketones? After _one day_? How does that happen?”

Dr. Banner studies him, eyes intense, considering. “You’re telling me you haven’t been skipping meals?”

“What?” Peter demands, affronted. “Of course not! I can’t be Spiderman and not eat!”

“So, this isn’t intentional?”

Peter’s eyes widen. “You think I’m starving myself?!”

“I didn’t say that,” he says gently, raising a hand to slow Peter’s outrage. “But that’s what your blood work is telling me.”

“That can’t be right, Dr. Banner. I don’t understand.” Peter puts on his best confused face.

There’s a pause while the man considers Peter. The teen can almost see the internal conflict he’s having; clearly trying to decide whether or not Peter is telling the truth. In the end, he sighs, puts his glasses back on, and stalks to the other side of the lab. He pulls out an odd-looking device and tosses it to Peter. It’s a body fat monitor.

“Stand up, squeeze the handles until it beeps,” he instructs the teen.

He complies and tries to hide the disgust he feels when the device reads out: 4%.  Four percent of his body mass is pure fat. How did he let that happen?

“That number can’t get any lower, Peter,” Dr. Banner says with a frown. “Especially because you’re 17, now. I’d actually like to see it go up.”

Gain body fat? Right.

“Your age, height, and weight puts your basal metabolic rate around…” he inputs a few things into his StarkPad, “1700 calories per day.”

Peter gulps.

“Adding in activity levels…” Dr. Banner continues, “around 3,000. Now, I don’t need you to keep a food log to know that you’re not eating that much. You see why this is a problem, yes?”

“Yeah,” Peter lies. This is the opposite of a problem in his mind.

“So, what are we going to do about this?”

Peter doesn’t answer right away, and Dr. Banner takes that as an opportunity to lecture him.

“You need to eat three meals a day, every day. Don’t tell me you’re too busy to eat, I don’t even accept that BS from Tony. You can go out on patrol _after_ you eat dinner with the team—”

“Since when does the team eat dinner together?” Peter asks incredulously.

“We eat together every night, Peter…you didn’t know?” Dr. Banner’s face morphs from anger to pity.

“I—uh, no…I didn’t know,” he stares down at his lap, furious with himself for being upset about this.

“Oh, I thought…I mean, I was under the impression that you didn’t want—Oh, Peter, you didn’t think the team was purposefully leaving you out, did you?”

“No, no, I’m sure there was a reason no one told me about it,” Peter doesn’t realize he’s digging his fingernail into his palm until he feels blood start to drip down his hand. He clasps his hands together so the man won’t notice.

“Alright, well,” Bruce continues, slightly uncomfortable, “from now on I want you to join us, ok?”

The teen nods.

“Now, I really shouldn’t let you run around the city every night considering your low body weight,” he muses.

Peter panics. “Dr. Banner, please, you can’t—”

The man holds up a hand to stop him. “Relax, Peter, I’m not going to stop you, I just want you to be safe,” he pauses while he chooses his next words. “I think it’s fair to assume that you’re more active now than you’ve ever been, correct?”

“Sure.” Dr. Banner doesn’t need to know how often Peter sprints through the night to draw that conclusion.

“Have you been taking all of this extra activity into account when it comes to refueling your body?”

Yes. “No.”

“And there we go,” Dr. Banner sighs, “You’re not consuming enough calories to replace what you burn when you’re out saving Queens every night. As a result, your body has been slowly starving; it’s no wonder your senses were all out of whack yesterday.”

“Speaking of whacky,” Mr. Stark barges into the lab, holding what looks like a pair of headphones in one hand and a large mug of coffee in the other. “I come bearing gifts.”  He tosses Peter the object and hops up onto the table across from him.

The teen inspects the over-the-ear headphones curiously. “Oh, um, thank you?”

“Try them on, kid,” the man encourages.

Peter complies, and his eyes widen in shock. It’s so _quiet._ He strains his ears but still, he can’t hear a thing. There’s no rustling sound, no white noise, _nothing._ The headphones are completely sound-proof.

He meets Mr. Stark’s proud smirk with an expression of disbelief.

 _I don’t know what to say,_ Peter signs, overwhelmed by the thought and effort that must have gone into the design. No one’s ever gone through such lengths for him. _Thank you,_ he pours as much gratitude as he can into his facial expression.

In true Mr. Stark fashion, the man just waves his hand. _It’s nothing._

 _They’re perfect,_ Peter insists, shaking his head in amazement. He freezes when a thought occurs to him, d _id you stay up all night to make these?_

In response, his mentor just raises his mug towards Peter then takes a long sip of coffee.

 _Mr. Stark,_ Peter fingerspells the name rapidly, unsure if Clint had assigned the team sign names, _you didn’t have to do that, I can deal—_

 _Yeah, clearly,_ the man raises his eyebrows and then turns around to put his coffee behind him so he has two hands to speak with. _The design didn’t take all night, I was working on other things, too. Don’t sweat it. Maybe now there’ll be no more of the damsel in distress act during training sessions, yeah?_

Mr. Stark, unlike Dr. Banner, is clearly fluent in ASL and there’s no mistaking the implication of his words. He figured the team was annoyed at him for causing such a scene during training yesterday, but none of them will say it as outright as his mentor just did.

Peter tries to smile, as if this is something to joke about. _Yeah._

* * *

 

Later that night, Peter finds himself on the ceiling. He’s screaming.

The details of the nightmare are fuzzy, but the fear and the panic are clear as day. As soon as he’s awake enough to realize what’s happening, he clamps a hand over his mouth and tries to muffle the involuntary sounds he’s making, praying that he wasn’t screaming long enough for anyone to notice.

He drops back down to the floor and clambers back onto his bed, gathering up the blankets that he must have thrown off himself. Curling up on his side, Peter presses his fists against his eyes, trying to push back the tears that are trying to force their way out. He is not going to cry alone in his room for the second night in a row. He forces himself to take deep breaths until his body stops shaking and eventually manages to drag his tired bones into the bathroom. He splashes cold water on his face and purposefully avoids looking at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t want to see the fear and grief reflected back at him.

What Peter really wants to do is see how many backflips he’d have to do before he passed out from sheer exhaustion, but that’s not the healthiest way of dealing with his feelings, and instead he heads to the common floor.

It’s unusually dark when he steps out of the elevator, FRIDAY lighting a path for him as he walks into the kitchen. The residents of the tower must be asleep for once.

Peter’s not sure what he’s doing in the kitchen, exactly. His nightmare left him feeling shaky, but maybe that’s actually a sign that he needs to eat something. His conversation with Dr. Banner still fresh in his mind, Peter ignores the guilt twisting his stomach and grabs some crackers to munch on. He’s awakened his appetite with the small snack and is just about to search for something else when he hears Cap’s footsteps approaching the kitchen.

“Hey, what are you doing awake?” the super soldier asks quietly.

Peter glances at the clock on the stove. He hadn’t realized it was 3am.

“Just taking a study break,” he lies easily.

“Studying? In the middle of the night?”

“Yup. I have a biochem exam at 8.” That part isn’t a lie.

Steve considers him. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping instead?”

Peter shakes his head. “Have you ever taken a biochem exam?” Yikes, was that rude? Peter scrambles to add, “Um, why are you awake?”

“Bucky had a nightmare, I came down to make him some hot chocolate.”

Peter has to bite his tongue to keep from saying ‘me too’ because the man isn’t here for him; he’s here for Bucky. Peter’s troubles are nothing compared to what Bucky has gone through, and the last thing he wants to do is take Cap’s attention away from the person that needs it the most.

“I can make you some too, if you’d like,” Steve offers casually over his shoulder as he pulls the milk out of the fridge.  

His first instinct is, of course, to refuse. It’s 3 o’clock in the morning; he can’t have sugar and dairy now, especially not after eating a huge dinner earlier. He hasn’t done anything to deserve a treat today.

But then the details of Peter’s nightmare start crawling around the edges of his memory and he has to repress a shudder. He won’t be able to fall back asleep without some kind of comfort and, of course, sleep is important for weight loss.

Or, rather, weight maintenance. Peter’s not trying to lose weight. He’s not.

“Yeah, um,” Peter clears his throat, embarrassed that he’s accepting the offer, “sure, thank you.”

Steve just smiles warmly at him and Peter finds that he’s able to match the expression.

Later, warmth in his belly and sugar on his tongue, Peter falls into peaceful sleep. He dreams of soft fingers in his hair and warm arms holding him close; the scent of his aunt’s perfume lingers even when the dream has long passed. He does not wake up screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this chapter so many times and added that last scene on a whim 5 minutes before posting this. I was hoping to get this up yesterday, but I had a lot of trouble with developing the other characters in this story. They're meant to be kind of standoffish and oblivious, but only because of the lengths that Peter is going to hide what he's dealing with and I struggled a lot with not making them too cruel or too parental. But I think I got there in the end and I'm really excited for the rest of this story!
> 
> Also I want to mention that I used to be a nutrition major so all of Bruce's medical ramblings should be accurate. I'm currently an ASL/interpreting major but I'm hearing so if any of my Deaf readers have any comments about the way the language is used here, please share!
> 
> Thank you all so much for 300 kudos on the first two chapters! I'm so humbled by your support and your kind words make my day. You could leave a single exclamation point in the comments and it'd still make me smile!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for use of homophobic language and brief allusion to sexual assault.

“I really didn’t think my bow could be improved any more, but you continue to prove me wrong, Stark.”

Clint is examining his bow in wonder, having just wrapped up a training session with the new weapon.

“Oh, don’t thank me; thank the kid,” Tony calls from across the range where he and Peter were doing some target practice. “The improved efficiency in the remote system was all him. Planning, building, everything.”

“No shit?” Clint raises his eyebrows in disbelief.

“Yeah, before the whole Spiderman thing I used to fix up old computers all the time,” Peter mutters shyly. “It just made more sense to automate the selection system instead of having to manually press the right button to get the arrow you need. The split second you save could make a huge difference when it counts.”

“You got that right,” Clint is still shaking his head. “I can’t believe you thought of this before Stark did.”

“Alright, alright,” grumbles Tony, “enough before his head gets too big to fit into that mask.” He suddenly spins around and throws the fake grenade he’d been holding at Peter’s head, a playful smirk on his face. The teen catches it behind his back without sparing it a glance and lobs it across the room before it can beep, signaling what would be a detonation.

“Good work, Spidey,” he ruffles Peter’s hair. “Go shower up; dinner is in an hour.”

Peter smiles. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.” He turns to leave the range, but Clint stops him before he can get very far.

“Hey Pete,” the man holds up his bow when Peter turns to look at him. “This is awesome. Thank you.”

Peter ducks his head bashfully. “You’re welcome.”

He bites his lip in an effort to tone down the grin trying to split his face open, but he loses the battle and smiles the whole way back to his room.

Attending team dinners has brought Peter closer to the Avengers than he thought was possible. He now joins them for training on days other than Sunday, he talks to the team like they’re friends instead of strangers, and he even helps them cook sometimes. He’s been spending more time in the labs with both Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner, and he’s trusted to work on projects like Clint’s bow and Sam’s wings. Last week, Mr. Stark showed him how to repair errors in FRIDAY’s code and Dr. Banner asked for his assistance with developing a strain of antibiotics that will work on Steve and Bucky (and probably himself, too). The man didn’t really need his help but being in the same room while he was working was the highlight of Peter’s week.

He feels better physically, too. Eating one full meal a day has done wonders for Peter’s body. He no longer feels lightheaded and shaky all the time, and he hasn’t had a sensory episode since the training incident last month. That’s the longest he’s had relief since May’s death.

He hasn’t been able to fulfill Dr. Banner’s wish of eating three meals every day, but one is better than none, right? Surely, Peter is eating enough at team dinner to make up for not eating all day. With spreads as huge as the one laid out tonight, it’s hard not to overindulge sometimes. The grand dining table is loaded with Italian food, Peter’s favorite, and he knows it’s going to be hard to say no to seconds. When that happens, Peter just stays out on patrol a little later and does some extra training either on his own or with whoever happens to be in the gym with him. Superheroes need to stay in shape, after all.

“Hey, Peter,” Bucky gets his attention quietly from where he’s seated next to the teen at the dinner table. They’re all chatting amongst themselves while waiting on Dr. Banner to finish up in his lab. “Clint told me you built him a new bow?”

He’s surprised the word had traveled so fast. “Oh, uh, yeah, I did,” he stammers.

“I didn’t realize you’re an engineer.”

Peter chokes. “Oh, I’m not, I’m definitely not,” he insists. “Really, it’s all Mr. Stark’s design, I just saw a little thing that could be improved, and then it was just a matter of tweaking the CPU.”

“Is he being too modest again?” Clint hollers across the table. “Go ahead, Peter, tell everyone how much smarter you are than Tony.”

There’s a chorus of “ooh…” from around the room and Peter groans.

“Please stop,” he covers his face with his hands to hide the blush crawling up his cheeks.

“For real though, much as I hate to admit it, the kid improved my speed by 13% on his first try,” says Sam.

“And then when I tried to explain the rigidity flexibility ratio to you, you flew away,” Peter recalls, earning laughs from the others.

“Look, I’m a soldier, not a scientist,” Sam defends himself. “Back me up here, Cap. You understand any of their genius talk?”

“Not a word,” Steve replies.

The Avengers all start talking over each other, the playful banter a familiar scene at dinner time. Over the din, Bucky gets Peter’s attention again.

“I was wondering if you’d be able to take a look at my arm later?” he asks quietly.

Peter is taken aback by the request. “Oh! Well, I’m uh, I’m not sure I’m qualified for that…” he begins hesitantly.

“I can walk you through it.”

“Wouldn’t Mr. Stark be better—?”

“No,” Bucky hastily cuts him off, “no, I want you to do it.” Peter pauses at the man’s intensity and Bucky clears his throat, embarrassed. He ducks his head when he adds, “I mean, if you want to, that is.”

“Of course! I mean, I’m honored that you asked me, I’m just not sure how helpful I can be,” Peter admits.

Bucky shrugs. “As long as you’re willing to try…”

“Yeah, I can take a look at it after dinner. We can go down to Mr. Stark’s lab if that’s ok with you?” he phrases it like a question, unsure if the man would be comfortable there.

“Perfect, thanks,” Bucky smiles, relief and something like hope written on his face.

“Don’t thank me yet; your arm is way more complicated than Clint’s bow.”

Clint throws a piece of bread at Peter (which he promptly catches and throws right back) and exclaims, “Now hang on a minute!” And the room dissolves into ruckus again.

* * *

 

“How long has this been hurting?” Peter asks, frowning at the pinched plate in Bucky’s metal arm.

“It doesn’t exactly hurt…it’s just a little uncomfortable.”

Bucky is nervously twirling a pen in his flesh hand, occasionally tapping it against the table his metal arm is resting on, and Peter is moving around him on a rolling chair. The man had vehemently refused to go near the examination chair on the other side of the room, so Peter had them set up in a way that was as different from that scene as possible. Bucky hadn’t said anything when Peter leaned over him to begin examining his arm, but the look on his face said enough. Rolling chair, it is.

“You don’t have to put on a brave face,” Peter continues, frown deepening as he zooms in on the holograph in front of him. “I can see that it’s pressing on one of the nerve wires.”

Bucky shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

Steve makes a wounded noise from where he’s sitting on the couch a few feet away from them, but he doesn’t look up from the book he’s pretending to read. Bucky insisted that he be down here during the procedure.

“Well,” Peter sighs, “you shouldn’t have to be.”

He almost voices how hypocritical he’s being but manages to keep those thoughts to himself. Just because he believes that he deserves to suffer doesn’t mean that anyone else does.

He studies the holograph for a few more minutes, making sure he knows exactly what he needs to do. Having been thoroughly briefed on the arm’s inner workings by FRIDAY, Mr. Stark, and Bucky, Peter is ready to get to work.

He takes his time opening the plates of the inner elbow, anxious to ease Bucky’s pain, but all too aware of how difficult this is for him. He keeps a careful eye on the man’s body language and takes frequent glimpses of his face, watching for any sign of distress, ready to stop in an instant if he has to.

Peter, though afraid of making a mistake, feels at ease here with Bucky. Something about focusing on someone else’s problems instead of his own clears his head and makes him feel more like himself than he has in ages. He feels useful, important, and even though he’s never repaired something like a metal limb, he’s confident that he can help his teammate. His relaxed state seems to help Bucky relax too.

“I’ve never had a kid work on my arm,” Bucky breaks the silence so quietly that Peter isn’t sure he hears him correctly, but then he continues. “This is difference. ‘S nice.”

And it clicks in Peter’s head. “Is that why you haven’t let Mr. Stark fix this?”

Bucky hesitates, but eventually nods. “I was afraid…” he trails off, biting his lip, and breathes for a minute before finishing, “I was afraid I’d hurt him if, you know, if things got too familiar.”

“You’re not afraid that you’re going to hurt me.” It’s not a question because, despite Steve’s presence, Peter knows the answer.

“I’m not,” Bucky confirms.

Peter ducks his head with a small smile and returns his attention to the arm. It only takes a minute for him to disconnect the necessary nerves and repair the hinge in the joints. He warns Bucky that things might feel different before he reconnects the wires and when he does, the man’s face is immediately awash with relief.

He stares down at his arm in wonder before mumbling, “Oh wow, that’s…that’s amazing.” He looks up at Peter with a smile that the teen can’t help but reflect.

“Yeah?” Peter asks, hope in his voice. “It doesn’t need any other adjustments?”

Bucky shakes his head. “It’s perfect. Peter, I don’t know how to thank you for this.”

“No need,” he shrugs, “I’m really happy that I could help you. And, um, thank you, you know, for trusting me enough to do this.”

Bucky reaches out to squeeze Peter’s shoulder and he basks in the casual affection. Something warm and fuzzy settles deep in his stomach and Peter is almost alarmed to realize that it’s contentment. For the first time in months, he’s truly happy.

* * *

 

­­­­­­­ He’s changing after gym when it happens.

Peter is alone in the locker room, having stayed on the field long after the bell rang to take a photo with Coach Wilson and have a certificate signed by Principal Morita. He didn't even mean to break the school record, it just happened.

In the past, he'd always kept a tight lid on his powers during gym class for obvious reasons, but since the start of junior year Peter has let himself have a little fun. When people ask where the sudden change has come from, and they rarely do, he gives them a story about exercise being a good distraction. Everyone knows that his aunt passed earlier this year, so no one presses any further.

This means that Peter gets to participate in gym class in a way that he never has before. He climbs ropes with ease, goes through the strength training days without breaking a sweat, and he's often one of the first that gets (begrudgingly) picked for sports teams.

Today's challenge, the mile run, was not an uncommon occurrence in class; often being used as a warmup before the real activity for the day. But they had never been asked to race against the clock like they did today.

There are a few athletes in Peter's class that he tried to keep pace with; obviously he couldn’t run as fast as he wanted to, but jeez, they were slow. During the last lap, Peter couldn’t help but pull ahead of them, his body only working as hard as the average person's would at a walk while theirs struggled to keep such a fast pace for a whole mile. Peter really turned up the speed on the last straightaway and grinned when he was the first to call out "time!" as some of the slower kids in his class were still making their way through their second lap.

"Well I'll be damned, Parker," Coach Wilson had smiled in disbelief. "That's got to be the new record."

That brought Peter up short. "Record?"

"I think you just ran the fastest mile in this school's history."

"What?" Jason Park, one of the seniors on the track team who was in Peter's gym period and got to witness the whole thing, beat him to the exclamation of disbelief.

"You ever think about running track?" Coach Wilson seemed oblivious to Jason's burning glare and Peter's terrified expression. "The team could really use you."

"Oh, no, I couldn't--I'm too busy, and I don't really run--" he’d stammered out.

"Don't run? Parker that was one of the most impressive displays of athleticism I've seen this year."

"I appreciate it, Coach, but I'm not interested in joining the team."

"What, too good for us now that you spend all of your time training with superheroes?" Jason had sneered.

"No.” What is it with everyone thinking that he has such a big ego? The truth couldn't be further from that. "I just meant that you guys are perfectly capable of winning meets without me."

"Damn straight, Parker." Jason had stalked away.

After all of the ceremonial nonsense of record breaking, Coach gave him a pass to give to his chemistry teacher since he was already going to be late.

Now, he's pulling his clothes on in a hurry, grateful that he never works hard enough to sweat during gym because he'd have no time to deal with that now. He just manages to get his shoes on when his spider sense pulls him up short from where he's bent over to gather his books. He immediately straightens up and scans the room for danger. Jason and two of his track friends, Mark Bishop and Toddrick Gall, enter the locker room, gaits predatory and smirks menacing. Peter pretends to concentrate on putting his things away while watching every move the boys make from the corner of his eye. Meanwhile, he's rapidly calculating in his head. The nearest faculty member is Coach Wilson and he has music blaring through his headphones from the office attached to the locker room. The hallways are empty, students and teachers all in their 6th period classes. So, no calling for help then.

"Parker," greets Todd with an unhappy frown. "Jason told me that you broke my record."

"I did." No sense in denying it.

"He also said," Mark continues, "that you claim you're too busy to run track."

"I am."

"Then please, enlighten us as to how you were able to break the record without ever attending a track practice or, you know, actually training to be a runner," Jason drawls lazily, though the way he cracks his knuckles gives away his malicious intent.

"No one gets that fast in one summer," Todd remarks.

Oh fuck, are they onto him? Is this how his secret is going to get out? Over a silly little school record?

"Unless…" Mark interrupts Peter’s thoughts, "he's been spending all of time sucking Captain America's dick. Is that it, Parker? Swallowing that super semen got you all jacked up?"

“Has Captain America made you his little bitch?" Jason sneers.

And that gets Peter mad. He can take the mockery and the insults, but insinuating that Steve Rogers is a pedophile? There's a line that just got crossed.

"Fuck you," he spits with as much venom as he can muster.

"Watch your mouth," Todd steps forward and shoves him against the lockers.

"Oh, don't be so mean, Toddy," Mark steps forward with a cruel smirk on his face. "He just doesn't know what to do with his mouth when there's no cock in it."

Peter struggles against Todd's hold with no more force than a non-enhanced would, trying to gauge how physical these guys are willing to get. They don't let him budge. Peter starts to slow his breath and focus. There's no way he can just stand here and take the beating, how would he explain a black eye that disappears overnight? But he also can't get away without making his abilities too obvious.

Jason throwing the first punch makes Peter's decision for him.

He dodges at the last second, and the boy's fist slams into the hard metal locker. He roars in anger and Todd presses his forearm against Peter's throat, winding up for a blow of his own. Peter maneuvers out of the hold just like Natasha taught him but Mark is right there, aiming a kick at his knee. He manages to hop over it and while the jock is off balance, Peter sweeps his legs out from under him. Jason has apparently recovered enough to take another swing at Peter's head, and he lets this one land, stepping away and to the side just enough that the blow won't leave a serious mark. He knows it should be impossible for him to get out of this fight without taking a hit.

Peter is too busy focusing on the three boys surrounding him to notice someone else has entered the room. Coach Wilson blows his whistle and sizes up the four boys in various states of disarray before yelling, "What the hell is going on here?"

* * *

 

"And that's all that happened? You didn't throw any punches?"

"I swear, Principal Morita, that's all." Peter insists, legs bouncing nervously, feeling overly claustrophobic in the tiny office he’d been called into minutes earlier.

The man sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You know we have a zero-tolerance policy here, Peter."

He nods, resigned to his fate.

"I expect you to try harder to alert a faculty member should a situation like this every arise again."

"Understood." Never mind that help wasn’t available at the time, nor has it ever been.

"The minimum consequence for fighting is a three-day suspension. I’m sorry but that's the best I can do."

The teen bites his lip to keep the frustrated tears at bay. He had to defend himself but he’s still getting suspended for it?

Peter gathers his things and makes to leave.

"Wait,” the principal stops him, “where are you going?"

"Uh, I’m suspended, right?"

"Yes, but you have to wait for your guardian to come pick you up."

"You didn't." The teen’s eyes widen in fear. “Principal Morita, please tell me you didn't call Mr. Stark."

"Peter, he's your legal guardian,” the man says gently. “According to school policy, I had to."

Peter hears familiar footsteps stalking down the hall towards the main office and he sinks back into the chair, shame and anxiety twisting his gut.

Mr. Stark sweeps into the office, expression cold, wearing his shop clothes, not one of the fancy suits that he adorns on days that he attends SI meetings. Peter is horrified by the realization that he pulled him away from somewhere he actually wanted to be.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," Principal Morita says amicably, seemingly unaware of the immediate tension in the room. "Here, this outlines Peter's actions, and his consequences, as well as all school policies related to the matter. He is suspended for three days."

Peter takes the paper from his principal, knowing that Mr. Stark won't take things from strangers. Normally, the act of consideration would have earned Peter a soft smile, but now the man doesn't even look at him.

"And the other boys?" he asks shortly.

"They are all suspended for 2 weeks."

Mr. Stark nods once and then sharply turns on his heel and exits the office. Taking that as his cue to follow, Peter waves sheepishly at his principal and hurries to catch up with his mentor. He can see in the man's gait that he's angry and the last thing he wants to do is sit in a car with him.

He voices as much when they reach the curb outside the front entrance. "I, uh, I can just walk back to the Tower," he offers.

"Get in the car, Peter," Mr. Stark snaps.

The drive is awful. Mr. Stark isn't talking to him, isn't even looking at him, and Peter thinks he would prefer if the man was screaming. The suffocating silence is too much after the horrible day he's had and all he wants is some advice from his mentor. He knows he screwed up and he wants to know how to fix it, how to be better. He thinks he might get his answers when Mr. Stark asks to talk to him up in his room, but when he gets there, he marches to Peter's closet and grabs his Spider Man suit.

Peter's heart stops, and then starts beating frantically.

"Mr. Stark, wait--"

"No, you wait, Peter," he all but growls, spinning on his heel to face the teen. "How could you be so irresponsible, so arrogant, so _stupid_ , as to use your superhuman abilities on three teenaged boys?"

"They cornered me and--"

"And nothing. There is no comparison here; there is no way for you to talk your way out of this and make it seem okay. You used your powers in school on your peers, do you understand how dangerous that is? Never mind that you could have killed one of those kids with a flick of your wrist, you don't think they're going to be a little suspicious now? Little Peter Parker coming out of a fight against three track stars without more than a scratch? And all this after that scene you caused in your anatomy class last month?"

"But if I let them hit me and it healed really fast--"

"Then we would've handled it, Peter! We would have worked out a way to keep your super healing a secret! But instead, you decided to make a stupid decision all on your own and jeopardize not only your secret identity, but the lives of everyone around you."

Peter stares at him dumfounded, trying to put together what he means by that last statement through the panic tightening his chest.

"What do you think is going to happen when the world finds out the Avengers have been housing an underaged vigilante? Huh? You think that'll go over well with the dust still settling after the collapse of the Accords? What was your plan here, Peter?"

Peter stares at the floor, shame and self-loathing swallowing him. "I, I didn't have a--"

"Of course you didn't!” Mr. Stark roars. “Luckily, I have a great one. This suit is mine until you prove that you're ready to act like a superhero and not a child."

"You can't do that!" Peter pleads.

"Like hell I can't!"

"No!” His voice cracks. “You can't just pull the rug out from under me like that whenever you feel like it! This isn't fair!"

“Grow up, Peter. Life isn’t fair.”

For the first time in his life, Peter wants to hit the man in front of him. “You think I don’t know that?” He’s practically screaming now, sorrow giving way to rage. “After everything, do you really think I need that lesson?”

“Yeah,” Mr. Stark scoffs, suddenly the picture of composure, “apparently you do.”

“Perfect, so you get to pretend to be a dad whenever I screw up, but all other times it’s radio silence? Did you get that technique from your father?”

For a moment, the words hang in the air, nothing but Peter’s harsh breaths disrupting the tense silence. He knows that was a low blow but has zero intention of taking it back.

Wordlessly, Mr. Stark slightly raises the hand holding Peter’s suit, gives the teen a pointed look, and turns for the door.

Peter waits until he’s halfway through the doorway before spitting, viciously, “I guess the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, after all.”

Mr. Stark softly closes the door behind him.  

As soon as the man is out of the room, Peter grabs the nearest object and hurls it at the wall. The paperback book doesn't manage to dent the wall and that enrages him. He wants to break things. He wants to break his skin.

Fuck.

Peter stumbles over to his closet, digging out a box from the back. He pulls out his old Spider Man suit and wastes no time before throwing it on. Mr. Stark didn't take the prototype web shooters that are in Peter's desk drawer, so he slaps them on and is out the door before FRIDAY can warn Mr. Stark. Not that the man would care, anyway. Peter probably pushed him far enough away that he shouldn’t be a problem for a while.

At first, he has no destination in mind; just swinging from one building to the next trying to see how much air time he can get between webs. The adrenaline coursing through his veins makes it easy for him to see the split second he needs to grab the next web to avoid falling 50 stories to the street below.

Peter wonders if that kind of a fall would be fatal.

But he's not out to test that theory tonight. He wants to channel his anger and humiliation into beating the shit out of some bad guys. Without Karen, he's going to have to track them down himself.

Over the course of several hours, he manages to stop 3 muggings and an attempted carjacking, roughing up the perpetrators more than necessary and not feeling a drop of remorse about it. That should probably scare him a little. It doesn’t.

He’s aimlessly swinging now, looking for trouble, and it’s not long before he finds it.

He hears the woman crying before he sees her. She's surrounded by 6 men at the back of an alley and they're rapidly closing in on her. Peter can see exactly where this is going, and he wastes no time before jumping into the thick of things.

"Hey guys, I don't think she's interested in joining your dance circle," he taunts the men, hoping they'll get angry enough to turn their attention on him.

It works.

"Fuck off, this doesn't concern you," one of them spits in his direction.

"Actually, the safety of the citizens of Queens does concern me. That's kind of my whole thing."

Another man pulls out a knife. "I think you need to worry about your own safety."

Peter rolls his eyes behind the mask. "Ok, mom." He webs the knife away before he even finishes speaking, then gets rid of another 3 guns before the men have a chance to start firing.

Now that the weapons are gone, he can have a little fun. Keeping himself between them and their victim, Peter lets himself go, landing punches and kicks just how Steve and Bucky taught him. One of the men is already unconscious and Peter knows he has this fight in the bag. That's when the knife impales his arm.

It hurts, but it's not the pain that distracts him; it's the fact that he had no idea the knife was coming. How did he miss that?

He rips out the blade and turns to hurl it down the block and the men uses this as an opportunity to land a few punches. Peter can't block from all angles and he can feel his ribs crack with a few well-placed kicks. Now the pain is enough to distract him. This has gone on long enough.

"Call the police!" he shouts at the victim.

Wide-eyed and shaking, she nods hastily and pulls out her phone.

One of the men tries to make a break to stop her; Peter shoots a web at his shoulder and tosses him against the wall, knocking him out. He does the same with two more of the men and leaves the other three webbed to the dumpster. After making sure they were all stripped of their weapons, he escorts the woman to the police car that had just pulled up and takes off without giving her a chance to thank him. He doesn’t deserve thanks; he was sloppy.

Once he's off the street, Peter finally gets a chance to survey the damage. It feels like one, maybe two ribs are cracked, his arm is still bleeding, and he might have a concussion? Did he get hit in the head? Normally, Peter would just ask Karen for an injury report so he knew exactly what to take care of, but since Mr. Stark took his suit, again, he'll have to figure it out on his own.

Not bothering to mind his cracked ribs, Peter starts swinging back toward the Tower. If he's lucky, team dinner hasn’t started yet so he can sneak up to his room without anyone noticing. He'll just have to be quick in asking FRIDAY to not alert anyone of his injuries.

He's about 5 blocks from the Tower when his web shooter jams. One second, he's sailing over Queens and the next he's plummeting toward the ground. He tries to use the other web shooter but misses, and there aren't any buildings close enough for him to grab onto. He hits the street with a sickening snap.

Peter lays in the middle of the road for a moment, trying to remember how to breathe. He can wiggle his fingers and toes; so probably no spinal injury. He was at least able to attempt to land on his feet and roll out of the fall, but by the way his ankle is swelling, he wasn't very successful.

Well, if he didn't have a concussion before, he definitely does now.

He rolls onto his side and sits up slowly, letting out nearly silent grunts of pain as his ribs (and his shoulder? collarbone?) protest the movement. He manages to climb to his feet but attempting to put weight on his right foot has him nearly face planting on the pavement again. Right, so definitely broken.

He can't walk back to the tower, and he can't swing with only one web shooter when he's this injured. He starts to ask Karen to call FRIDAY and get someone to pick him up when he remembers that he's in his old suit. And, in his haste to get out of the building, he left his cell phone and his wallet in his room. If he managed to flag down a cab he’s sure he could talk his way into getting Spider Man a free ride, but then he’d have to explain why he needs to go to the Avengers Tower when he’s not supposed to be associated with the team in the first place.

Walking it is, then.

* * *

 

Nearly half an hour later, having stopped to catch his breath several times when he felt like he was going to pass out, Peter finally enters the tower.

"FRIDAY, override protocol 778, access code PP0810," he manages through gritted teeth.

"Protocol disabled."

He sighs in relief and drags himself into the elevator. Not for the first time, Peter is grateful for the many side and back entrances to the Tower that only the team has access to. He couldn't avoid suspicion otherwise.

So when the elevator stops on the common floor, Peter panics.

"FRIDAY, what--"

"Dr. Banner asked me to inform him when you returned. He insists that you join the team for dinner."

"No, I can't--" Peter clamps his mouth shut when the elevator opens. Dr. Banner is there to greet him.

After a horrible silence during which Bruce eyes him up and down, expression changing from curiosity to concern to anger, Peter clears his throat.

"Um, I'm not really feeling up for dinner right now, I was just heading up to my room..." he trails off.

Dr. Banner shakes himself out of his startled silence. "Are you bleeding?"

Peter tries to shrug, but winces when the movement pulls at his damaged shoulder. "Probably."

"Hey, what's all the--" Captain Rogers comes around the corner and freezes when he catches sight of Peter. "You're hurt."

"It's not that bad, I can take care of it. I didn't mean to interrupt dinner."

"Peter, shut up for a second," Dr. Banner snaps. "FRIDAY, injury report."

"Mr. Parker has disabled that particular protocol, doctor."

Traitor.

Bruce flashes him a look of disbelief before commanding, "Override request, code doctor's orders."

"Override accepted. Mr. Parker has fractures in ribs 3-6, his right ankle is broken in 2 places, he has a moderate concussion, and his left shoulder is dislocated. The laceration on his left arm is still bleeding and will require stitches."

And, well, Peter has nothing to say to that.

By now, having heard Cap announce Peter's arrival, the whole team has gathered in front of the common floor elevator, from which Peter has yet to exit. They're staring at him with a mixture of confusion, disbelief, and concern. It's the last one that makes his blood boil.

"Look, I've had worse, I can take care of it. You can all go back to your team bonding or whatever."

"Peter, your ankle could require surgery," Dr. Banner reasons.

"I heal fast," the teen insists.

The man doesn't respond, he just steps into the elevator with Peter and orders FRIDAY to take them to the Medbay. Horrifyingly, Cap and Mr. Stark insist on coming with them.

He pointedly avoids eye contact with his mentor, and the man makes no attempt to speak to him while Dr. Banner keeps up a rapid string of questions during the journey down 40 floors. He does his best to recall the events of the evening, but the pain is catching up with him and he keeps slurring his words. By the time the elevator doors open again, he's on the verge of collapsing.

Steve must recognize as much because he grabs Peter's right arm to support him down the hall, but when he tries to step out of the elevator, it's only that grip on his elbow that keeps him upright.

"Jesus Christ, Peter," Mr. Stark address him for the first time with a disbelieving shake of his head.

And Peter wants to scream at him, wants to blame him for his own reckless actions even though he knows it’s unfair, but the pain is overwhelming, and he can’t quite put the words together.

Steve ignores Mr. Stark's reaction and asks Peter, "Is it okay if I carry you?"

He manages a nod.

The next hour is a blur of x-rays, casting, shouting, pain, pain, and more pain. He slips in and out of a lucid state, trying to answer questions but not able to do much more than grunt. He switches to signing and is grateful that there are doctors in the room who know more ASL than Bruce does. He remembers being asked why the pain medication they had dripping through an IV wasn't working, and he thinks he managed to mumble something about his metabolism. Dr. Banner’s response was a string of shouted obscenities.

When he's fully aware of his surrounding again, his right ankle is in a cast, his ribs are bandaged, and his left arm is stitched and in a sling. He's not alone. The whole team is in the room with him, and his first lucid thought is that it's a very small room for 8 people.

"How's the pain?" Dr. Banner is the first to speak.

"S'fine."

"Try again, Peter." There's an exasperated twist to his words.

"Pain meds don't work, it's okay."

“It’s not okay,” Dr. Banner corrects him. “Well figure something out.” He goes back to frantically typing on his StarkPad and Mr. Stark decides that it's his turn.

"Care to explain yourself, Parker?" He demands. There's something in his eyes that makes Peter's anger towards the man dissipate. It looks like guilt.

"Web shooter jammed," he mumbles. His pain is no more controlled than it was earlier, but at least he's no longer hopping through the streets of Queens.

"That's not what I meant."

And Peter is too tired for this. He stares blankly at his mentor, willing him to elaborate.

"Why the hell would you go out without your suit and risk using a pair of web shooters that haven't been tested yet?"

Peter tries to laugh but he coughs instead and the pain shooting through his rib cage nearly brings tears to his eyes.

"You took my suit," he gasps out.

"Oh, so this is my fault?" Mr. Stark starts shouting, and likely would have kept going if not for the whole team turning their glares on him. Steve puts a hand on the man's shoulder, as if he's holding him back. Peter wishes he wouldn't. He deserves to be yelled at.

Natasha walks forward and crouches by the side of Peter's bed. Her voice is as gentle as he's ever heard when she asks, "Where did that knife wound come from?"

"These guys...they...six of them, one girl, had to stop them." He hurts and it's getting hard to think again.

"Of course you did," Nat continues slowly, "but how'd they land a hit on you? I'm guessing the ribs were their doing as well?"

Peter nods, then shuts his eyes when the movement makes the room spin. "I thought I got rid of the weapons. Karen would've told me."

Before anyone can express their confusion, Mr. Stark provides, "Karen is the AI in his suit." He's pinching the bridge of his nose and frowning when he adds, "the suit I took from him."

There's a pause.

"And you took the suit because...?" Clint voices the obvious question. 

When Mr. Stark doesn't answer right away, Bucky asks, "Does this have anything to do with the screaming match I heard earlier?"

"I messed up," Peter confesses quietly. "Don't deserve the suit."

"I never said that, Peter," his mentor says fiercely.

"S'true though."

"Peter," Steve says reverently, "if anyone deserves to put on that suit and call himself a hero, it's you."

The teen just shakes his head; if only Steve knew how wrong he is.

"I just don't understand...” Dr. Banner sounds frustrated. “The broken ankle was clearly a result of falling from height, when your web shooter malfunctioned, I presume?"

It's a question but Peter doesn't answer, so Dr. Banner continues.

"How did six non-enhanced men do such damage to you, Peter?"

Natasha seems to have been wondering the same thing. "We've all fought with you, you don’t go down that easily."

Sam steps forward from his spot against the door and the team all turn their heads to track his movement. His expression is calm while he considers the teen, but his voice is strained when he asks, quietly, "Were you trying to get hurt, Peter?" 

This time when he shrugs, Peter welcomes the ache in his shoulder.

"Physical pain s'easy," he slurs, nearly delirious at this point, "makes sense."

His eyes slip closed and he misses the way the rest of the team exchange worried glances. Through his pain-muddled brain, Peter thinks he may have revealed too much. But he can deal with that when he wakes up. Right now, he needs to give his healing factor a chance to work, and he finally surrenders to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this is late! Spring semester started on Tuesday and I'm already much busier than I expected. I'm going to try to pump out the last two chapters as quickly as possible but, like Peter, my mental health is fragile at best and I have to be careful and put school first. I still plan on updating weekly, but I might be a few days late so please bare with me!  
> This chapter is plot heavy and I definitely struggled with that. I might come in and add some more to the last scene because it feels too rushed, but it's already 6500 (!!) words and I felt like some scenes were too slow and too detailed. Writing is hard! (Also, I wanted to get this up before I leave for class (in literally 10 minutes, whoops).) Thank you all for your patience!!
> 
> And, as always, thank you all for the incredibly sweet comments, they mean the absolute world to me! I'm so thrilled with the response this is getting, and I can't wait to share more with you all!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for graphic depiction of self-harm, and detailed descriptions of eating disorder behaviors. If you'd like more detail, please don't hesitate to ask on tumblr: thechoicewasallmine  
> This is a rough one.

The first time it happens, there's no spectacle, no dramatic trigger, no hesitation. He just does it. And then he feels better. So, he keeps doing it.

Peter's not sure why he hadn't started this earlier, really. It's so easy. He can eat dinner with the team to avoid suspicion, and then go right up to his private bathroom and get rid of the food he didn't deserve in the first place. Sure, it'd be easier to just not eat, and he prefers that, but when he can't make another excuse or there are too many eyes watching him, he can eat and rest assured that it won't be staying for long.

The team has been up his ass since The Incident; always making sure he’s eating, always asking how his day had been (as if there’d be anything to talk about while he’s benched from patrolling), always assuring him that ‘we’re here for you if you need to talk, Peter’. That phrase feels like a punch to the gut every time. He doesn’t deserve the kindness. He deserves to suffer alone.

One of the many perks of purging is the pain that comes with it. Peter's ribs are still very much broken and every time his stomach contracts, every time he heaves over the toilet, the pain is nearly overwhelming. That, plus the pain in his throat from constantly being exposed to stomach acid means he's always hurting. It keeps him focused; keeps him present.

And maybe Peter is starting to realize that what he's doing isn't healthy, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t deserve health. This new method of self-destruction feels right.

Peter smiles sickly to himself as he pushes through another set of one-armed push-ups, still adjusting to the weight of the walking boot on his right ankle. He's back to exercising alone in his room because Dr. Banner won't clear him for physical activity yet. He can't let something as stupid as a few broken bones stop him from working out. Especially not with the team insisting that he eats dinner every night.

At first, he wanted to refuse to eat altogether because why the hell would he eat if he can't burn it off? But whatever logical part of his brain that's left rationalized that doing so would raise too many questions. Better to eat and purge than to be caught deliberately starving yourself. Peter's sure that the team would understand why he's not allowed to eat if they knew what a terrible person he really is but, for some reason, he's still going out of his way to hide that from them.

Either he's a better actor than he thought, or the geniuses in the Tower are just waiting for the right moment to corner him. He feels it coming in the long looks and sideways glances that Nat, Clint, and even Sam have been giving him for the past 2 weeks; in the way that Bucky and Mr. Stark are always asking for his help when they clearly don’t need it; in the way that Dr. Banner invites him to his lab almost every day. Captain Rogers has been treating him more like a little brother than a teammate, and Thor has gone back to pretending that he doesn’t understand ‘these silly Midgardian games’ just so that Peter can explain them to him.

He can’t handle the scrutiny; constantly exhausted from having to put on an act all day every day. He wishes things could go back to the way they were before that damn Incident.

That damn incident that wouldn't have even happened if it wasn't for Mr. Stark.

Peter tries to remember that the man did apologize, and that he's actually been making an effort to be a better guardian lately, but it only serves to make Peter angrier. He doesn't deserve the attention; doesn't deserve the kindness, and every interaction with Mr. Stark has him itching to do something so horrific that he'd push him away for good.

Exercise done for the hour, Peter returns to his homework only slightly out of breath and waits for the inevitable call down for dinner. He’s not dreading it as much as usual because tonight’s meal was Peter’s choice—they’ve been letting him choose more often recently, probably hoping that he’ll eat more. Chicken noodle soup is one of Peter’s favorite foods (and if he chose it over pizza because it’s way easier to throw up after, no one will know).

The conversation at the dinner table that night is centered around him; as usual.

“Did you ask your chem teacher for an extension on that lab report?” Mr. Stark asks around a mouthful of pasta.

“Yeah,” Peter lies easily, “he was really nice about it.”

As if he’s earned any compassion from his teachers. If he wasn’t so stupid, he’d be able to finish the lab on time like the rest of the class. Peter’s grade will be lowered when he turns it in late, but that’s his own fault; it’s his problem to deal with.  

“Glad to hear it,” Mr. Stark smiles warmly at him and the teen digs his nails into his palm under the table, out of sight.

“Did you tell everyone about your grade on that physics project?” Dr. Banner asks.

“No,” Peter mumbles shyly.

“Wait, wait, wait, let me guess,” Sam interrupts whatever Dr. Banner was going to say. “You got a 95.”

“Oh, are we betting?” Clint asks, never one to back away from a challenge. “93.”

“Psh, no faith,” Bucky chides. “97.”

“100,” Steve says surely.

Natasha studies Peter for a beat before confidently stating, “98.”

“Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner!” Mr. Stark bellows, pointing a triumphant finger at Natasha.

“How does she always do that?” Sam wonders to himself, shaking his head in disbelief.

She just smirks at him around a mouthful of soup.

Bucky lightly punches Peter’s arm. “Nice job, kid.”

“Thanks,” he replies quietly. He feels the praise is undeserved. His teacher found two points to take off his project, that’s not exactly cause for celebration. He should’ve done better.

“Speaking of things that Peter is good at,” Clint begins loudly, “am I the last one to know that the kid is fluent in ASL? Was no one going to tell me, the resident Deaf guy, that there’s another signer in the Tower?”

Peter’s face reddens. “I’m sorry I didn’t mention it earlier I—”

“Oh no, Peter, I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at the dimwits that watched you sign fluently and neglected to tell me about it.”

“To be fair,” Dr. Banner says with a self-deprecating smirk, “I didn’t know he was fluent.”

“Not surprising, considering you used the sign for “make out” instead of “make” several times,” Peter muses, then slaps a hand over his mouth when he realizes what he just said. “Dr. Banner, wait, I didn’t mean to—”

He’s cut off by roaring laughs from the whole team. Mr. Stark nearly chokes on his food, Steve is clutching at his chest, and Clint is laughing so hard he’s doubled over, resting his forehead on the table.

“Bruce, holder-of-seven-PhDs Bruce, just got called out by a teenager,” Clint gasps out between wheezes.  

“FRIDAY,” Mr. Stark is in no better shape, “please save that footage.”

“Confirmed.”

“Dr. Banner,” Peter tries to plead over the noise, “I’m really sorry I—”

The doctor raises a hand to stop him, an amused smiled on his face now. “No, Peter, you are absolutely right. I should be further along with the language than I am now. And Clint,” he turns his attention to the archer, “it’s not fair to you that I’m not. I’m sorry I haven’t been a very good friend and I promise that I will reprioritize learning sign language.”

Clint gives the doctor a rare warm smile, still shaking with laughter. “Thanks man, I appreciate it.”

“Wait.” Peter is confused. “Is everyone else fluent?”

“No, but the rest of us aren’t super-geniuses with seven PhDs that learn languages in their sleep,” Sam remarks.

“He’s being modest,” Clint assures Peter. “Stark, Nat, and Bucky are all fluent. The rest of these idiots know enough to be conversational.” _But they wouldn’t know proper sentence structure if it bit them in the ass,_ he signs rapidly to the teen, who barks out a laugh before biting his lip.

“Oh, great,” Sam groans. “The last thing we need is these two trouble makers plotting in secret.”

Mr. Stark scoffs. “Relax, Wilson. There are no secrets in this Tower.”

Peter gulps.

* * *

 

Later that week, Peter finds himself working on Bucky’s arm again; the obvious show of trust something that the teen is still coming to terms with. He’s certain he hasn’t done anything to earn this confidence and he’s terrified that he’s going to mess it up.

Especially on days like today.

It’s been 2 hours since the team finished dinner and Peter still feels dirty. No matter how far he shoved the toothbrush down his throat, he couldn’t get out all of the meat, and none of the vegetables or tortillas would come up. His throat is raw and his stomach is cramping; all of that pain and nothing to show for it. Those calories, gluttonous and unearned, are just sitting there and will all be turned to fat because his stupid ankle refuses to heal which means he still can’t go out.

He’s finding it hard to focus. The issue in Bucky’s arm is a lot more complicated than the first time he had done this, and he spends a long time examining graphics; his brain refusing to keep up with the information in front of him, too distracted by the guilt swirling around his gut.

“If you’re not sure how to fix it, it’s okay,” Bucky says gently after a few minutes of Peter staring at a screen. “I can deal with it.”

“Buck…” Steve warns from his spot on the couch, not even pretending to read this time.

“No, no,” Peter reassures him, “I can help you. I want to help you.”

“Alright, but no pressure.”

Right, no pressure. It’s just that his arm is occasionally shocking him, and he isn’t comfortable enough with having Mr. Stark or Dr. Banner work on it yet, so Peter is his only option. No big deal.

The main control panel in the bicep of the arm is intricately designed; everything is interconnected and it’s nearly impossible to isolate one area of nerve wires. But only one of the nerves is faulty, so he must somehow repair that connection without damaging the others.

Halting the tremors in his hands through sheer force of will, Peter begins.

He moves all of the working wires out of the way and is able to access the one that is shorting out. The connection is secure, the wire itself is intact, and there’s nothing visibly blocking the electrical current. He pokes around for a while, trying to identify a reason for the glitch, when Bucky suddenly freezes.

“Stop,” he gasps.

Peter hesitates. “What? Bucky I’m almost there, I—”

“I said, stop!”

Before he knows what’s happening, Bucky’s metal hand is wrapped around his throat and he’s being thrown across the room. He hits the wall hard and slides to the floor with a thud before clamoring to his feet, eyes scanning the room, looking for danger.

Steve has both of his hands on Bucky’s shoulders, grip tight, and he’s repeating the same phrases over and over.

“Bucky, it’s Steve. It’s 2019, you’re in the Avengers Tower, you’re safe. I’m here.”

Meanwhile Bucky has a distant, haunted look in his eyes. He’s breathing heavily and his hands are balled into fists, his body coiled so tight it looks like he’s going to explode. He’s not forming full words, but he’s muttering what sounds like a desperate plea for help. There are tears running down his face.

For a moment, it looks like some life returns to his expression, but then, so quickly that Peter can hardly track the movement, Bucky twists out of Steve’s grip and lunges towards Peter. Steve manages to tackle him mid-air and they both crash through a table before hitting the ground. The taller man is struggling to pin down Bucky, who has now started yelling.

“No, stop! Please!” He’s fighting Steve’s grip like his life depends on it.

“FRIDAY, get Thor down here!” Steve barks, before turning toward the teen who is still frozen against the wall. “Peter, get out!”

He’s quick to comply, crawling across the ceiling and then sprinting out the door. He uses the handrails in the nearest staircase to pull himself up the 20 floors and stumbles into his room, breathless.

Fuck, _fuck._ He just triggered Bucky into a flashback.

Peter’s whole body is shaking so it takes 3 tries, but eventually he’s able to open the box that was tucked away in his sock drawer and pull out a blade. He swore he’d never do this again, but he has to hurt, he has to stop the screaming in his head, and this is the only way to do it.

_I’m so sorry Aunt May._

Peter has the sense to crawl into his bathroom before he starts, but once the sharp edge hits his skin, his mind goes blank.

Line, after line, after line, after line.

It hurts but it’s not enough, he needs to hurt more, so he goes deeper and deeper, until the blade slips from his bloody grasp and clatters onto the white tiles. The blood dipping down his arms doesn’t scare him, though he’s fully aware some of the cuts should get stitches. He’s just furious that it doesn’t hurt enough; he needs more.

Peter peels off his clothes, not minding the blood getting everywhere and climbs into the shower, chest heaving. Movements frantic, he turns the water as hot as it will go and holds his arms under the stream. A groan of agony is ripped from his throat, but he doesn’t pull his arms away. He lets the water continue to sear his flesh until he no longer feels like he’s going to shake apart, until the pain is enough to ground him. By the time that happens, the cuts have stopped bleeding but the skin around them is bright red and blistered.

He climbs out of the shower, roughly towels himself off, and pulls on a pair of sweatpants before he starts to clean up on autopilot. He disinfects and bandages the cuts on his arms carefully, knowing they’ll heal faster if they’re properly treated, and then slips on a long-sleeved shirt to hide the evidence. He takes his now-bloodied clothes and the towels he used to mop up the floor and buries them at the bottom of a garbage bag that he hides in the bathroom closet. He’ll deal with that tomorrow. He’s just finished putting the blades away when there’s a knock at the door.

“Boss is requesting entry.” FRIDAY tells him.

Peter grabs his phone and settles onto his bed before allowing FRIDAY to let him in.

He pretends to be very interested in scrolling through intstagram while Mr. Stark walks in and perches himself on the edge of his bed.

“Hey, squirt.”

“Hey.”

“Cap just briefed me on what went down in the lab.”

“Is Bucky okay?” Peter asks anxiously.

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

He makes a frustrated noise. “I’m fine. How’s Bucky?”

“He’s okay. He’s had worse flashbacks over a lot less, don’t sweat it.”

Mr. Stark’s air of nonchalance is only making Peter feel worse. The man is obviously trying to downplay the situation for his sake and he doesn’t deserve that kind of consideration.

“Really, how are you?” his mentor prompts gently.

“Fine.”

“Cap told me you got thrown into a wall.”

“I didn’t get hurt.”

The man doesn’t believe him. “How’s his ankle, FRIDAY?”

“Mr. Parker’s ankle was not further damaged as a result of the confrontation.”

“Did he receive any other injuries that he’s hiding from me?”

Peter’s heart stops.

“No other injuries sustained in the lab.” FRIDAY reports steadily.

The teen lets out a long breath.

“Pete, I need to make sure you know this wasn’t your fault.”

“Mr. Stark…” Peter ducks his head, uncomfortable with being called out on the guilt he’s feeling. He should be drowning in remorse for what he did.

“Nope, I mean it. Nothing you did could have prevented what happened. Bucky trusts you for a reason; I imagine I would’ve gotten thrown against the wall on the first try, and I don’t bounce like you do, Spidey,” he lightly shoves the teen. “C’mon, I want you to say it.”

Peter rolls his eyes.

“I’m way more stubborn than you, kid, don’t even try it.”

“What do you want me to say?” he sighs.

“Tell me that Bucky’s flashback wasn’t your fault.”

“It wasn’t my fault.” He repeats robotically.

“Okay, now try harder to make yourself believe it.”

Peter sighs again and unconsciously presses his palm against his wrist. “Bucky’s flashback was not my fault.”

“There,” Mr. Stark grins, “was that so hard?”

“I guess not.”

Not at all, really. Peter is an expert when it comes to lying to himself.

Mr. Stark ruffles Peter’s hair before standing up. “I’ll be down in the lab doing some damage control if you need me.”

“Oh, I can help—”

“Nope, nice try, kid. It’s passed your bedtime.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Mr. Stark, I’m 17.”

“Oh, c’mon, just because I’ve been lax on the rules doesn’t mean I don’t notice how late you stay out on patrol. You need way more sleep than you’ve been letting yourself get, pal. Now’s the time when you need it most; your body still has some healing to do. Bed.”

With that, Mr. Stark strolls out the door.

Meanwhile Peter is trying to remember how to breathe. The calm that had settled over him after cutting is gone, replaced by sheer panic.

If Mr. Stark knows how little he’s been sleeping, does he know about everything else too? What does FRIDAY tell him? Have they somehow been tracking his eating habits? Are they just waiting for the right moment to pull the rug out from under him and demand that he goes into the foster care system like he was supposed to? Did he finally push Mr. Stark away for good?

Peter thought that was what he wanted but faced with the possible reality of that situation, he’s terrified. Without the team, he has nothing.

Maybe if he tries hard enough he can still change Mr. Stark’s mind. If he just does what he’s supposed to do from now on, maybe that will be enough.

It’s only 11pm, but his guardian wants him to go to bed, so he does.

Or, rather, he tries.

After laying there, staring at the inside of his eyelids for 2 hours, he gives up. He’s not tired enough to sleep and he hasn’t done enough physical activity to be able to pass out from exhaustion. That last part, he can fix. With little regard for his broken ankle, Peter starts pacing around his room. He tells himself that he’ll stop when his StarkWatch reaches 20,000 steps, but that margin comes and goes long before Peter feels like he’s earned rest.

When he finally crawls back into bed, the number 46,000 is staring at him.

Tomorrow, he’ll do better.

* * *

 

 “Uh, hi.”

Captain Rogers smiles up at him from his place at the kitchen table, surrounded by a massive amount of food.

“Morning, Pete,” he says around a mouthful of pancakes. “Hungry?”

“Oh, um, not particularly…I, uh, have to get to school,” Peter stammers out.

“I thought school didn’t start until 8?” Steve raises his eyebrows at him.

Peter glances at the clock. Shit, it’s 6:45.

“Right,” he trails off, not quite awake enough to come up with an excuse.

“C’mon, there’s more than enough for the both of us.”

That’s what Peter is afraid of. He wants to make an excuse and run, but he told himself he’d try harder today. So, he sits down next to Steve and tries not to look as tense as he feels.

The table is overflowing with pancakes, muffins, bacon, toast, and orange juice. All of the most difficult foods to purge.

But, no, Peter isn’t going to do that anymore. The team wants him to take care of himself, he can follow orders. He can ignore the guilt screaming at him, telling him he hasn’t done anything to deserve this food. He can.

Peter hesitantly puts two pancakes on his plate; two is a normal amount, right? Bacon is all fat, so definitely avoid it, toast is empty calories…maybe a muffin? At least they’re blueberry and not chocolate chip. Steve pours a glass of juice for him before he can refuse the unnecessary sugar.

“Thanks.” He hopes his smile is more than a grimace.

“No problem, pal,” Steve’s kindness is hard to shy away from. “Anything exciting going on in school today?”

“Not really,” he shrugs, grateful that the conversation isn’t about food. “I have an anatomy exam, but I’m not worried about it.”

“And why would you be? You’re the smartest kid I know.” Steve knocks his shoulder into Peter’s.

The teen blushes. “I’m one of the only kids you know, Cap.”

“Yeah, and?”

Bucky picks that moment to walk into the kitchen and Peter freezes, midway through forcing down a bite of the muffin.

“Oh my god, Bucky, I’m so sorry about last night I—”

Bucky throws a banana at him that he’s too stunned to catch.

“Shut up and eat your breakfast, kid. Ain’t nothing to apologize for.”

“But I—”

This time it’s an orange that bounces off Peter’s head.

“Nope, shut it. I threw you against a wall; we’re even.”

Bucky grabs himself a plate and sits across from the teen, a relaxed sort of calm about him.

“Don’t bother trying, Peter,” Steve whispers inconspicuously. “We’ve all set each other off on so many occasions, we quite literally don’t have the time to apologize for it. We’ve all got baggage, s’hard not to bring things up sometimes. Alls well that ends well, right?”

“I—I mean I guess,” Peter says uncertainly, trying to process what Cap just told him. “You sure you’re okay, Bucky?”

“Well, my shoulder is a little sore from Thor sitting on it, but I’ll live.” He cracks a warm smile. “Seriously kid, don’t sweat it.”

“Huh. You know, Mr. Stark said the same thing last night.”

“And I bet you didn’t listen and sweated a whole lot, didn’t you?” Bucky asks with a knowing smirk.

Peter laughs, a little bitter. “Kinda.” He feels so stupid for cutting last night. He betrayed his aunt for nothing; all those months clean for nothing.

“Well, it’s over now,” Steve says with an air of finality. “Fuel up, kid, soldiers need to keep their strength up; especially when dealing with an enemy like anatomy.”

Bucky and Steve start bantering over old teachers and exam horror stories, but Peter is stuck on the fact that Cap just referred to him as a soldier; just put him in the same category as himself, and Bucky, and Rhodey, and all of the other heroes that Peter knows. As if he’d ever be worthy of walking the same ground as those guys. Instantly, Peter’s appetite vanishes, and he stares down at his plate in disgust. He doesn’t deserve to eat.

“You should finish all of that, Pete,” Bucky startles him out of his thoughts by putting two more pancakes on his plate before he can stop him. “Brain runs on glucose and all that.”

“Right.”

Peter sets his sights back on the food and curses himself for not taking off when he had the chance. He’s knows he shouldn’t ignore Bucky’s suggestion, so he stabs at the pancakes unenthusiastically. He already feels too full.

Unaware of how slowly he’s eating, Peter doesn’t finish his breakfast until 7:40. He nearly chokes when he sees the time.

“Shit, I’m gonna be late!”

“Relax,” Steve hushes him, “I’ll drive you.”

“What? I mean, uh, no it’s fine, I can walk.”

“Just because it’s called a walking boot doesn’t mean you should be walking more than necessary,” Bucky reminds him.

“Getting to school is necessary.”

“But walking isn’t.” Steve pulls out his keys. “Grab your stuff, let’s go.”

“Oh, and here,” Bucky tosses him another muffin and this time he catches it. “Brain fuel. Go crush that exam.”

Peter manages a smile. “Thanks, Bucky.”

 

Somehow, Peter forgot what a speed demon Captain America is.

The man weaves in and out of rush hour traffic like HYDRA is on his tail, sliding in and out of places his little sports car shouldn’t be able to fit. Horns blare all around him, protesting his aggressive driving, and Peter can’t help but sink in his seat a little at the intimidating smirk on his face. Something tells Peter that Steve’s offer to drive him to school wasn’t purely altruistic.

If Peter wasn’t already nauseous, he definitely would be now.

Of course, Steve elects to pull right up to the front entrance of the school instead of dropping him off a block away. There’s nothing that says ‘notice me’ quite like a license plate that reads: ROGERS or a car that is so clearly worth more than most of the buildings in the neighborhood.

If that wasn’t enough, when Peter climbs out of the car, pointedly not making eye contact with any of the hundreds of people staring at him, Steve rolls down the window. “Have a good day!” He calls, loudly, with an amused smirk that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Peter smacks a hand against his forehead and tosses a “thanks” over his shoulder.

“Did Captain fucking America just drop you off at school?” Flash demands as soon as the man pulls away.

“Yup.”

“What the fuck…” Flash trails off in a whisper, seemingly contemplating his entire existence.

Peter smirks. Thanks, Cap.

* * *

 

He makes it through 20 minutes of his first period English class before he can’t ignore it anymore.

Peter has been trying to focus on morphology to no avail, the affixes on the page not making sense while his mind is busy fighting its own war.

The amount of food that he ate at breakfast was totally normal. His enhanced metabolism probably even needs more than that. He was just following directions, he didn’t do anything wrong.

So why does he feel so guilty? Why does he want to reopen the wounds that closed overnight? Why is his stomach rolling so violently that he feels like he might be sick without even trying? Why does he want to try?

He can’t remember ever feeling this nauseous in his entire life, and that includes that time he had the stomach flu when he was 13. His stomach doesn’t just feel uneasy, it hurts, stuffed to the brim with fat, sugar, and simple carbohydrates, and all Peter wants to do is get rid of it. He bounces his leg unconsciously, burning calories even while seated.

“Hey,” Ned whispers from where he’s sat behind Peter, “you okay?”

And that does it. He can’t take this anymore.

Peter bolts up out of his seat and out the door, ignoring his teacher’s worried, “Peter?” as he passes her. He jogs down the hall to the nearest bathroom and stumbles into a stall, locking it behind him with shaking hands. He takes a moment to assess how far things have gone; he’s really about to purge in a school bathroom. This is his life now.

It’s about as horrible as was expected, given what he ate and how little he drank while he was eating. The only things he manages to get up are a little bit of the muffin and some juice, and eventually he has to stop because it hurts to breathe. He wipes his fingers and his mouth with toilet paper, flushes, and climbs shakily to his feet. The bathroom door opens.

“Peter?” Ned calls hesitantly.

Exiting the stall slowly, he meets his friend’s eyes.

“Woah, you look like shit,” Ned tells him.

“Thanks, man.”

“Did you throw up?”

Peter nods.

“Gross. Are you gonna do it again?”

Hopefully. “Probably.”

“Gross.”

“Yeah.”

The teen shuffles past his friend, who offers to grab a nurse’s pass and Peter’s backpack, and goes to wash his hands and rinse out his mouth. While he waits for Ned to get back, he leans against the dirty sink and tries to hold onto the nausea, hoping it’ll last until he can get back to the Tower and get rid of the rest of his breakfast.

Ned escorts him to the nurse, leaving with a soft, “feel better, bro”, and Peter is left to wait anxiously for Mr. Stark to come pick him up.

“Peter, sweetie, I can’t get ahold of Mr. Stark on the number listed here, is there another way I can contact him?” Nurse Lee asks.

Shit. He forgot Mr. Stark is in meetings all day today.

“He won’t be reachable for the rest of the day,” Peter tells her, pitifully.

“Well, honey, you don’t have a fever…do you want to try to stick it out for the rest of the day?”

“No,” he moans desperately. He has to get rid of this food. Now. “Don’t I have other emergency contacts listed?”

“Yes, I suppose I can try one of the other, um, Avengers.” She squints at the paper in her hands. “Steven Rogers?”

After he just dropped Peter off at school? No way. He shakes his head.

“Bruce Banner?”

Peter does not need a nosy doctor right now.

“Natasha Romanov?”

The spy will see through his lies in a second.

“Thor O…Odinson?”

“Yeah, try Thor.”

The god isn’t as stupid as he lets some people believe, but he is the most unfamiliar with human illness. If he can fake being sick to anyone, it’s Thor.

Not that he has to do much faking, really. He feels awful. Thor doesn’t have to know that it’s self-induced.

“He’s says he’ll be here ‘promptly’, Peter. Sit tight.”

“Thanks, Nurse Lee.”

The drive home is much nicer than the drive to school. Thor understands that he isn’t up for chatting and he’s a much slower driver than Steve. Peter wasn’t sure if he knew how to drive at all.

“Thanks again for coming to get me,” Peter says when they get back to the Tower.

“You are most welcome, young friend. I hope whatever ails you is cured swiftly.”

If only it were that easy.

Alone in his bathroom, Peter wastes no time. He gulps warm water straight from the tap for as long as he can stand, then jumps up in down in front of the toilet a few times. Dropping to his knees, he presses as hard as he can against his stomach and shoves a toothbrush to the back of his throat. This part is easy, now. He’s had lots of practice.

What’s not easy is getting up giant globs of pancake. Bready things like that never come up easily, and it’s been almost an hour since he finished them. He’s going to have to employ some tricks if he’s to actually rid himself of everything.

After checking with FRIDAY that no one is on the common floor, Peter heads to the kitchen to make himself a tall glass of warm salt water. He’s never used this technique before, but he’s read how effective it can be at making someone vomit.

 _Here goes nothing,_ he thinks, before he starts chugging.

He only makes it halfway through the glass before he all but tosses it in the sink and sprints for the bathroom. He doesn’t have to help his body at first, the food coming up naturally, but after a minute, he’s stuck again and lets out a groan of frustration. Peter can’t stop now, he’s not empty yet.

He gulps from the tap again, this time going far past the point his body can handle before he leans over the toilet again. He rubs the back of his throat until the vomit pushes his hand out, then goes back in again and again and again. He’s midway through repeating the whole process when his spider sense breaks through the haze. Someone is standing outside of the bathroom.

He can’t stop. He’s so close.

He shoves his fingers down his throat once more.

It’s another two full minutes before he’s finished and by then Peter can’t decide if his throat or his stomach hurts more.

There’s a knock on the door. “Pete?”

Fuck. It’s Mr. Stark.

“You okay in there?”

“Yeah,” Peter croaks out. “Just a second.”

He has to grab the edge of the sink to keep from falling over as he stands up on unsteady legs and tries to clean up after himself the best he can. He’s too dizzy to focus. When he opens the bathroom door, Mr. Stark looks up from his StarkPad with a frown.

“Jeez, kid, you alright? That sounded awful.”

“Yeah, uh, I’m not feeling so great.”

“I bet,” he says sympathetically before frowning and asking, “Why was Thor the one called to pick you up from school?”

“You were in a meeting and—”

“You have my personal number, Peter,” Mr. Stark reminds him. “You know you can always call that.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to bother you,” Peter mumbles, swaying slightly on his feet.

“It’s alright, I’m just glad he didn’t crash my damn car.” Worried about Peter’s flushed expression, Mr. Stark aims a question at the ceiling. “Hey, FRIDAY, does Peter have a fever?”

“Mr. Parker’s temperature is currently within normal ranges.”

“When did you start feeling sick, kiddo?” The man asks.

“Last night,” he lies. “I thought it would get better if I ate something this morning, but it got worse instead. It’s probably just school stress catching up to me, you know? I’m gonna go lay down.”

“You sure you don’t want Bruce to take a look at you?”

Hell no. “Yeah, yeah, no I’m fine.”

“Alright, let FRIDAY know if you need anything.”

* * *

 

Later that night, Pepper knocks softly on Peter’s door. When there’s no answer, she opens it as quietly as possible and pokes her head in.

The teen is laying on his side, facing the door, with his eyes shut tight. He has both arms wrapped around his cramping stomach and his whole body is trembling. There are tear tracks on his pale face.

 “Oh, Peter,” Pepper murmurs sympathetically, entering the room and closing the door softly behind her. “Tony mentioned you were sick, but he didn’t say it was this bad. Why didn’t you call one of us?”

Peter shakes his head, afraid to open his mouth. He hasn’t been able to keep down so much as a sip of water since he got home from school. It’s been 9 hours. The trash can by his bed reeks of vomit, but he’s too weak to do anything about it.

Pepper sits on the edge of the bed and rests a hand on Peter’s knee. “I know you’re not feeling well but maybe we can help. Can you tell me what’s hurting you?”

“Everything.” His voice is a cracked whisper.

Pepper, overwhelmed by the sudden protective instincts she feels for the boy in front of her, reaches out to stroke Peter’s hair. He leans into it and lets out an involuntary whimper. He just wants the pain to go away.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she whispers. “I wish I could get you some medicine, but I know you’ll just burn right through it. Why don’t we try a heating pad to soothe your stomach and an ice pack for your head? Does that sound okay?”

“Okay,” he mouths.

“Alright honey, I’ll be right back.”

She leaves, and Peter’s shaking intensifies, his instincts screaming at him to follow her warmth, her comfort, but his body being unable to do anything about it.

Meanwhile Pepper hurries down to the common floor to collect the supplies she needs. She finds the ice pack and heating pad, before rummaging through the refrigerator in search of ginger ale.

“FRIDAY, where is Tony?”

“Sir is currently in his lab.”

“Get him up here, tell him it’s urgent.”

“Right away, Miss Potts.”

She fills a glass of water and grabs a towel for the ice pack, wrapping her supplies in the towel so she has a hand free.

“And FRI, in the meantime, please tell me what the hell is going on with the kid.”

“It appears that Mr. Parker's stomach and esophagus are inflamed. He has vomited 13 times in the past 10 hours and is experiencing early symptoms of dehydration. Fluids and rest recommended.”

“What the hell is making him so sick?”

“Cause unknown.”

Pepper sighs. Of course.

“Pep?” Tony hurries out of the elevator, expression worried. FRIDAY wouldn’t give him any details, only that Pepper needed him urgently.

She turns to face him, expression deadly. “Are you aware that Peter has been alone in his room, sick as a dog, since he got home from school this morning?”

Tony is surprised by the line of questioning. “I mean, yeah, I knew the kid was sick. When I saw him this morning he said he was stressed about school.”

“What I just saw was much more than school stress,” Pepper says pointedly. “Go grab a bottle of ginger ale from the Penthouse and meet me in Peter’s room.” Her tone leaves no room for argument and Tony hurries to comply.

Re-entering Peter’s room, Pepper is unsurprised to see that he hasn’t moved at all.

“Okay, Peter, let’s see if we can get you feeling a little better, huh?”

He tries to reply, but it comes out as a groan of pain.

Pepper turns on the heating pad and wraps the ice pack in the towel before helping the teen into a slightly more upright position.

No longer curled on his side, the cramping in Peter’s stomach intensifies and he lets out a whine through his teeth.

“Oh, I know honey, I know,” Pepper soothes.

She gently places the heating pad on his abdomen and the teen clutches at it like a lifeline. “Where’s the headache?” she asks quietly.

Peter points to his forehead, so she situates the ice pack there. He sighs in relief as the cold distracts him from the sharp pain in his head.

“Do you want to try some water?”

“Can’t,” Peter mumbles. “I’ll just throw it up.”

“You have to stay hydrated anyway, Peter. I know it’s horrible, but you don’t want to add dehydration symptoms to what you’re already feeling. Your headache might even go away if you drink something.”

“She’s right, kiddo,” Tony says quietly as he enters the room. “She’s always right.” He crouches next to the bed, pointedly ignoring the vomit bin a few feet away, and offers the ginger ale to the teen. “Maybe this will go down easier?”

“I can try,” Peter croaks, unconvinced, but desperate to please the people that are being far too kind to him. He doesn’t deserve this kind of compassion. He did this to himself.

Peter reaches out with a shaky hand for the bottle that Mr. Stark had the foresight to open for him. He starts to raise the bottle to his lips, but the thought of swallowing has his stomach cramping painfully again. He lowers the bottle into his lap and buries his face in his hands. He doesn’t want to cry, but it hurts and he doesn’t know how to make it stop.

“Peter, honey, what is it?” Pepper reaches out to rub his knee.

“I—I don’t want to throw up anymore.” It feels more like an admission than Peter had planned, and he’s stunned by the truth of what he just said. He really doesn’t want to do this anymore.

The dam bursts.

Peter cries into his hands, afraid of how sick he’s gotten and absolutely terrified that he dug himself in too deep and that there’s no getting out.

Tony is in way over his head here. He has no idea what to do with a sick kid, let alone a sick kid that’s sobbing hysterically. But Pepper, sweet, wonderful Pepper, seems to know exactly what to do.

She gathers Peter into her arms and gently rocks him back and forth, murmuring words of comfort into his ear. Stroking his hair gently, she doesn’t seem to notice that he’s getting snot and spit and tears all over her, and by the look of fierce protectiveness on her face, she probably doesn’t mind at all.

Tony makes himself busy with cleaning Peter’s trashcan in the bathtub (something he never thought he’d have to do) and grabs a wet washcloth when he’s done. Bringing both back into the bedroom, he’s relieved to see that the kid has calmed down, sniffling instead of sobbing.

Peter takes the washcloth with a hand that’s shaking harder than it was before, and roughly scrubs his face with it.

“I know you’re feeling pretty awful right now, Peter,” Tony starts gently, “but we’ve got to get some fluids into you. If you really don’t want to try drinking anything, we’ll have to get an IV going. You just have to tell us what you want to do, okay? The ball is in your court here, pal.”

“I can’t drink anything,” the teen whimpers, “I’ve been trying all day.”

“Alright, then I’m going to have FRIDAY send Bruce up and he’ll—”

“No!” Peter cuts him off frantically, “Dr. Banner can’t—no, I…I’ll try drinking, I can—”

“Hey, hey, hey” Pepper shushes him, “slow down, honey. Do you not want Bruce in here?”

Peter shakes his head, embarrassed, but still unwilling to be examined by someone that might notice too much.

“FRIDAY, who else is competent at placing IV lines?” Tony asks.

There’s a pause while the AI gathers information. “Miss Romanov, Mr. Wilson, and Sargent Barnes all have sufficient training and field experience.”

“Bucky,” Peter says quietly. “I want Bucky.”

“You heard the kid, FRIDAY. Let him know what’s going on.”

While waiting for Barnes to arrive, Pepper helps Peter out of his soiled t-shirt and into a clean one, and the teen has the sense to try to hide his arms. He’s not sure if he succeeds, but at least the scars are hard to see in the low light of his room. Tony switches out Peter’s pillowcases in the meantime. The freshness doesn’t make the pain go away, but it does make Peter feel a little less disgusting.

“Shit, I can’t believe I didn’t ask earlier…” Tony grumbles to himself before asking his AI, “How are Peter’s ribs looking?”

“The fractures in ribs 3 and 4 are completely healed. Ribs 5 and 6 still show small hairline fractures.”

Pepper makes a wounded noise and Tony sucks in a sharp breath.

“I bet that doesn’t feel very good when you throw up, huh kiddo?” Tony asks.

Peter shakes his head miserably.

“I know you don’t want to see Dr. Banner right now, and that’s okay, I promise I won’t push. But Peter, I have to let him know what’s going on. We have to get a move on the pain meds we’re trying to develop for you.”

Peter wishes he wouldn’t. He deserves the pain.

“Why don’t you go take care of that, Tony?” Pepper suggests. “I’ll stay here with Peter.”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to…” Peter starts.

“Shh,” Pepper pushes the hair out of his face, “I want to.”

Tony gives his fiancé a kiss on the head and squeezes Peter’s shoulder before leaving the room. He nearly runs into Barnes in the hall and the man looks like he’s on a mission.

“Stark, what the hell is going on?” he demands, obviously worried, though it’s coming across more like anger.

“Look, Barnes, I honestly don’t know how to answer that right now. Something is obviously going on with the kid and I feel like I’m just seeing the surface of it. We’ve got a lot to figure out here, but the current goal is to get him feeling better physically. He hasn’t been able to keep anything down today and he needs those fluids. Can you take care of him?”

“Of course I can,” Bucky says, determined.

“Good. He asked for you specifically,” Tony says pointedly, hoping the weight of that fact isn’t lost. “I have to go help him in other ways so I’m counting on you here.”

Tony hurries off to Banner’s lab, confident that between Barnes and Pepper, Peter is in good hands.

“Hey pal,” Bucky says softly as he walks into Peter’s room, basket of IV supplies in his hands. “I heard you’re not feeling so great.”

“I’ve been better.” He tries a smile. Bucky smiles back at him so maybe it worked.

“Well, hopefully this will help you feel a little better.”

He arranges the supplies on a clean towel in the middle of the bed, pulls on a pair of gloves, and gets to work. He purposely doesn’t ask about the scars on Peter’s wrist, but gives Pepper a look that says, ‘did you know about this?’. By the slight shake of her head, it’s clear that she didn’t.

It only takes Bucky a minute to place the line and hook up the fluid bag to a pole that he places next to the kid’s headboard, but in that time, even more color seems to drain from his face.

“Pete, you still with me?” he asks, volume slightly louder than when he last spoke.

“Mmph,” Peter manages, a familiar sickness rolling around his stomach. He struggles to pull himself upright, trying to mind the IV, and Pepper and Bucky help him lean over the bed. He gags, but there’s nothing left to come up, no way to find relief.

Watching the kid dry heave is painful enough, Bucky can’t imagine what Peter himself must be feeling. He rubs his back, trying to provide what little comfort he can while he rummages through the materials he brought up, searching for the Zofran.

When the nausea subsides enough for Peter to curl back up on his side, Bucky tells him, “I’m going to give you something that should help you feel a little less nauseous, okay Peter? It’s a pretty high dose so it should last long enough to give you some relief.”

He pushes the Zofran through the line and waits for it to kick in. It doesn’t take long before Peter’s hands uncurl from their death grip on his abdomen, and eventually the lines in his face start to relax, too.

Bucky cleans up the medical supplies while Pepper helps Peter get more comfortable. She takes the ice pack but leaves him with the heating pad and pulls his comforter up to his chin.

“Try to get some rest, sweetie,” she whispers, stroking his hair one last time before she starts to stand up.

Peter lets out an involuntary whimper in his half-aware state. He’s not going to ask her to stay, he doesn’t deserve that.

But Pepper understands anyway. She scoots closer to the teen and starts rubbing his back, softly humming a pleasant tune from her childhood. Bucky slips out quietly while she lulls Peter to sleep.

A few minutes pass before the teen’s breaths even out and he is firmly asleep. Pepper spends a few extra moments with him, taking in the sight of his peaceful, pain free expression before she, too, exits the room.

Bucky grabs Pepper’s arm the minute she closes the door and spins her around. His eyes are wild when he gasps out, “Pepper, what the hell?”

She grabs his arm just as tightly as her own eyes rapidly fill with tears. “I know, James. I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Peter, you poor thing. God bless Pepper tbh.
> 
> I hope the POV shift in the last scene isn't too confusing, Peter was so sick I didn't think I'd be able to tell the story the way I wanted to from only his POV. I was going for third person omniscient, but I've never really written in that POV so I struggled a bit.
> 
> This chapter is a day late because it was really, really hard to write and I had to keep stepping away from it (hopefully that's not reflected too much in the writing). I'm a year into my own eating disorder recovery and doing really well, but trying to find that headspace, exploring what it feels like to believe you don't deserve food is rough (to put it lightly). But I'm so proud of this chapter and I can't wait to hear what you all think of it. 
> 
> Thank you again for the incredible feedback on the last chapter. You are all so kind and so supportive, it makes writing sensitive and often triggering topics like these that much easier, because after dragging up all these old feelings I get showered with compliments from some wonderful people. I really can't thank you all enough. This story exists because of all of you.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All previous trigger warning apply to this chapter. Also TW for suicidal thoughts, ideation, and discussions of an attempt. If you need more detail, please don't hesitate to ask on tumblr: thechoicewasallmine

“Hey pal, how was therapy?”

“Fine,” Peter sighs, and plops down on the couch next to Bucky.  

The man takes in his frustrated expression. “You know, if you don’t like your therapist, we can always find a new one.”

“No, no, I like her, she’s nice. It’s just…” Peter shrugs. “I don’t know if therapy is helping.”

It’s the half-truth, at least. Jaime is just too nice; Peter can’t bring himself to tell her what he’s really thinking. He often doesn’t even realize until the session is over, but he usually tells her what he thinks she wants to hear because he’s afraid of what she’ll say if he’s honest. He ends up leaving the room feeling worse than he did when he walked in.

At least his therapist comes to the Tower so he doesn’t have to deal with someone driving him twice a week. He’s causing the team enough trouble as it is.

Bucky makes a sympathetic noise. “I hear ya, buddy. I’d love to stop waking up screaming, if only for the sake of Stevie’s eardrums. If not for his super healing he’d be as deaf as birdbrain over there.”

Clint flips him off from where he’s sat opposite the two in the common room, not taking his eyes off the book in his right hand. _Don’t need my hearing aids to know you’re talking shit, Barnes_.

 _Always_ , Bucky signs back.

“How long have you been in therapy?” Peter asks, bringing Bucky’s attention back to him.

“Oh, um…” Bucky takes a minute to think, “over 2 years now.” He sim-coms because, though he’ll swear up and down that it’s not true, he’s one of the most considerate people Peter has ever met. Even though Clint hadn’t been involved in the conversation, Bucky still made sure it was accessible to him.

Peter only hates himself a little bit for not signing as soon as he walked into the room. He usually has more awareness of his hearing privilege than that.

Clint waves his hand to get their attention before he signs, _going on 10 years for me. Nightmares still suck sometimes, but not as bad as they used to._

Peter bites his tongue until he tastes blood. 10 years? He’s not even sure how he’s going to get thr0ugh the next 10 days.

 _It’s not the nightmares, really…_ he trails off staring down at his hands.

Bucky touches his arm. _Then what?_

Being awake is worse, but he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t tell anyone that.

 _Do you get flashbacks, too?_ Clint asks, having abandoned his book, full attention on the teen.

He shrugs. _Sometimes._

 _I don’t think there’s anyone in this Tower that doesn’t experience flashbacks,_ Clint signs. _You’re not alone._

Peter tries a smile. _I know._

He wishes people would stop telling him that. He knows that everyone on the team has dealt with PTSD at one time or another, and he’s seen the effects their job has had on all of them first hand. He supposes the constant reminders are meant to make him feel less alone, but really, they just make him feel like shit.

The Avengers are superheroes. They save the world on a regular basis. In their off time, they have jobs, or responsibilities, or hobbies, and they’re not only functioning; they’re thriving in their roles.

And Peter? Peter can’t even make it through a day of high school without losing it. He can’t handle stopping some petty crimes as Spider Man; hell, he can’t even handle eating most days.

The endless reminders of how poorly he’s handling his mental health aren’t welcome, but he doesn’t know how to express that without sounding self-centered and whiny. So, he doesn’t.

 _You just have to give it time, Peter,_ the archer continues. _It’s only been a few weeks, be patient._

_Right._

Peter clenches his jaw so tightly he’s afraid he’ll crack a tooth. He’s trying to be patient, he’s trying to put his faith in his treatment team, but it’s been two weeks since he lost it in front of Mr. Stark and Miss Potts and things have only gotten worse. He’s not sure how long he can keep doing this.

 

Later that day, Peter is struggling at the dinner table.

He’s always struggling at the dinner table, but tonight is particularly hard because he’d been sitting around for most of the day with few chances to burn calories to make up for what he’s about to consume. He’s still banned from patrol until he reaches some ridiculously unattainable goal weight and his stupid ankle decides to finally heal. Dr. Banner says it’s because he’s not eating enough for his body to rebuild itself, but wouldn’t more weight on broken bones make it worse? Regardless, Peter isn’t trying to lose weight. He just doesn’t want to gain any.

Everything in his life is a disaster. He’s not going to add being fat to the mess.

Sam nudging Peter’s foot with his own under the table breaks him out of his self-loathing. The man doesn’t say anything, but he raises a pointed eyebrow in Peter’s direction. He looks down at his plate and frowns.

Right. Eating.

He pokes at the chicken unenthusiastically, knowing that he won’t be allowed to leave the table until he finishes his plate. If he has to hear “the rules are there to help you, Peter” one more time he’s going to lose it.

No one has explicitly told him that they’re monitoring his food intake, but it’s obvious. The ‘team hang out’ in the common room following dinner isn’t subtle either. Peter knows the team doesn’t trust him to not throw up his food if he’s alone.

They’re right to not trust him, but it doesn’t make him any less angry.

“Pete, c’mon,” Sam urges again, this time out loud.

Immediately, all eyes are on him and the teen has to focus on loosening the grip on his fork so he doesn’t break it.

“I’m trying, okay?” He bites out sharply.

Mr. Stark challenges him with a raised brow. “Are you?”

“I'm not hungry.”

Now the team is exchanging uncomfortable glances and Peter’s anger doubles.

“It’d be a lot easier to eat if you weren’t all staring at me,” he snaps.

“Sorry.”

The teen blinks at Bucky’s quiet apology.

Sam sighs and rubs a hand down his face. “You’re right, we’re making it weird,” he agrees.

“Sorry, squirt.” Even Mr. Stark looks sheepish.

Guilt swallows Peter whole. The team was just trying to be helpful and he snapped at them. This is why he doesn’t deserve the food in front of him. He stares back down at his plate with burning eyes and starts to robotically cut up his dinner, no longer having the energy to make excuses.

Each bite is harder to force down than the last. He knows exactly how many calories are in each mouthful and he hasn’t earned a single one. But if he wants to get back to being Spider Man, Peter needs to gain a total of 10 pounds, and the longer he puts it off, the more people are out there getting hurt because of him. He can’t handle any more blood on his conscience.

Jamie weighs him before every session but doesn’t let him see the number; she says he’s not ready to be confronted with the reality of gaining weight—and she’s probably right—but that doesn’t mean Peter has to like it. No one told FRIDAY that Peter isn’t allowed to know his weight, so he just asks her every day. Sometimes more than once a day. Sometimes nine times. Just to be sure he’s not gaining too much.

But Mr. Stark did tell FRIDAY not to let him cut or purge in the Tower. Normally, all cameras and sensors are turned off in the bathrooms unless there’s an emergency, but Peter is an exception now. If FRIDAY has any reason to believe he’s hurting himself, she’s allowed to notify someone.

Traitor.

He also can’t exercise in his room anymore; that’s being monitored too. So, essentially, all Peter has been doing is sitting around getting fat and he’s never hated himself more. He never wanted this, he didn’t ask for a therapist; didn’t ask for the whole team to breathe down his neck whenever he eats, or to insist that he gains weight when he’s perfectly healthy where he’s at. He doesn’t want to change.

He just wants to stop day dreaming killing himself. It’s getting distracting.

* * *

 

“Peter.”

“Huh?”

Peter blinks out of his daze to find his friends staring at him. Ned looks worried and MJ has her eyebrows raised in a way that asks, ‘are you kidding?’.

“Did you hear a word I just said?” she wonders.

“Uh, no sorry,” Peter stammers, “I zoned out.”

“Again?” Ned looks at him incredulously. “Dude, you’re like a zombie recently, what gives?”

“Nothing, nothing, m’just tired.”

“Uh huh,” MJ says disbelievingly, “you said that yesterday.”

“That’s ‘cause I was tired yesterday, too.”

“Right, whatever nerd. I was trying to tell you that we’re going to the library for the second half of lunch to study.”

“Oh, okay cool, I’ll meet you guys there. I’m just gonna go pee really quick.”

“Don’t fall in,” Ned tosses over his shoulder as he and MJ make their way out of the cafeteria.

Peter throws away his garbage and pulls out his water bottle as he makes his way to the bathroom, filling it at the water fountain just outside the door. He locks himself in a stall and starts chugging. The whole thing is empty before his gag reflex starts to take over; the routine so familiar it’s laughably easy.

FRIDAY isn’t here to tattle on him.

* * *

 

Peter isn’t going to have to kill himself, after all. He’s going to die right here.

“You’re smarter than every kid at that school, so what the hell is this?”

Mr. Stark slams his report card onto the table and turns his fiery expression toward Peter. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

His heart is hammering in his chest and his hands are shaking. “I’m sorry—”

“Oh, don’t apologize to me, Peter,” the man cuts him off angrily, “it’s your own future that you’re throwing away here. What college is going to accept grades like these, huh? I only have so much pull at MIT, no amount of money can make up for a D in anatomy during your junior year! You can’t get that up to an A in just 4 months! Do you care about this at all?”

“Of course I care, I—”

“Then why aren’t you trying?”

“I am trying!” Peter didn’t mean to yell, and he flinches at the sharpness in his voice “I’m trying, okay? I hate this! I hate feeling stupid and I hate that I’m failing but I swear I’m trying it’s just hard, it’s so hard and—”

“Hey, hey, hey, okay,” Mr. Stark raises his hands and takes a step back, clearly uncomfortable with the tears that Peter couldn’t keep at bay any longer. “I believe you, I know it’s hard. I’m sorry for yelling”.

Peter wipes at his eyes furiously. He knows the man is only apologizing for making him cry and that he meant every word he said.

“Why don’t you, uh, go to your room and study,” the man suggests gently. “We can talk about this another time.”

Without another word, Peter slinks out of the workshop and up to his room. He tries to follow orders, he stares at his anatomy textbook for 10 minutes before the tears return and blur his vision. God, he _hates_ crying. He hates the tightness in his chest and the pressure behind his eyes; hates letting himself feel this way. He deserves to feel pain for his awful grades, he doesn’t deserve to cry over them. He wants to hurt.

And he still could, despite the lack of sharp objects in his room. (Those were the first things to go when the team found out about the scars on his wrists. He’s such an idiot—he should’ve cut on his thighs instead.) Peter could use anything to cut if he really wanted to; he’s been forced to get creative before. But then FRIDAY would alert Mr. Stark and the man would probably think he was the reason Peter wanted to hurt himself and he doesn’t want to do that to his guardian. It’s not Mr. Stark’s fault that Peter is a failure; no one deserves to suffer as much as him.

“Mr. Parker,” FRIDAY interrupts Peter’s spiraling, “Miss Romanov is on her way to see you.”

“Thanks, FRI.”

Peter hastily wipes his face, knowing the effort is futile and Nat will know he’s been crying before she’s fully in the room. He tries to refocus on the bone reformation he’s been studying, lest Nat thinks he’s as lazy as his grades suggest.

There’s a soft knock at the door.

“Come in.” Peter’s voice is rough; so much for trying to convince her he wasn’t crying.

“Hey, Peter,” she smiles easily at him. “Do you have a minute?”

Uh oh. “Sure, what’s up?”

“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” she confesses as she crosses the room and comes to sit on his bed across from him.

She looks…nervous? Peter isn’t sure he’s ever used that word to describe her.

“I don’t tell many people about this,” she starts, and Peter sucks in a breath and the blatant display of trust from Black Widow of all people, “but I think you’ll understand better than most.”

And then, before Peter can start to guess what she could possibly be talking about, Natasha stands up and starts taking off her sweatpants.

Peter slaps his hands over his eyes. “Woah, Nat, I—”

“Oh, relax,” she chides him, tossing her pants to the ground and sitting back down. “Look.”

He hesitantly peeks through his fingers to see the woman gesturing at her outer thigh. There are scars running from her hip to her knee, all different lengths, different thicknesses, but all perfectly parallel. The cause is obvious.

“I…oh,” Peter says dumbly, unsure of how to react to the admission. “But you…” he tries again, then trails off, shaking his head. When he meets her eyes, that same nervousness is there, mixed with determination.

“I want you to know that I get it, Peter,” she says earnestly. “It’s a habit that started in the Red Room and followed me into adulthood. I didn’t want to stop for a long time, but when I was ready, I couldn’t do it alone—and I wasn’t alone.” She reaches out to squeeze his knee. “And neither are you.”

“I’m…” Peter has to swallow convulsively a few times. “Thank you for trusting me enough to show me.”

Nat smiles. “It wasn’t purely altruistic if I’m being honest. There aren’t many people who get self-harm. It’s a hard thing to understand if you’ve never struggled with it, the desire to control the source of your pain.”

Peter frowns and Natasha tilts her head at him.

“Unless…” He can almost see the gears turning in her head, “unless it’s not about that for you.”

“I don’t know,” Peter mumbles, suddenly nervous.

“You don’t see it the way I do, do you? You don’t crave control…you don’t feel the need to be the only one that can make yourself hurt; that’s not it for you.”

She’s studying him intensely, and Peter shrinks under her stare.

“Oh,” Nat breathes, “you don’t care about the source of the pain…you just want to hurt.”

Peter freezes, heart beating frantically over the ease with which she just voiced his darkest secret.

“You want to hurt because you feel like you deserve to be punished,” she continues.

“Please stop,” Peter gasps out desperately. He suddenly can’t breathe.

“The eating thing isn’t about control either, is it?”

He begs, “Nat. Don’t.”

“You don’t think you deserve the food, do you?” Her face is a mixture of surprise and hurt. Peter did that to her.

“Stop!” He clamps his hands over his ears, unable to listen to his pathetic habits laid out for what they are.

“Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry we—”

“Get out!” he screams desperately. When did he start crying again?

“I didn’t mean to—”

“GO!” His throat burns with the force of his pleading and Natasha finally takes pity on him. She slips her sweatpants back on, quickly crosses the room, but then hesitates by the door. Before he knows what he’s doing, Peter is throwing his textbook across the room. It would’ve hit Nat in the back of the head had she not closed the door behind her in that same second.

For a moment, Peter sits there, chest heaving, trying to process what just happened. His eyes land on the hole in his door made by the book, and his sobbing intensifies.

How the hell did he let himself get here?

* * *

 

“Stark.”

Tony whips his head up at the sound of Natasha’s voice. One look at her face has him ripping off his welding goggles, tossing his tools aside, and crossing the workshop in four long strides.

“Nat, what is it? What’s wrong?”

When he places a gentle hand on her shoulder, she bursts into tears.

And this…this is so not how Tony saw his night going. That’s two people that have sobbed in the workshop today.

He gathers the normally stoic spy into his arms and rubs soothing circles into her back, waiting out the tears. It takes longer than he would have thought, but eventually Natasha pulls back from the hug and swipes under her eyes with unsteady hands.

“I—it’s Peter, he—”

Peter? Tony immediately panics. “Is he hurt? What happened?”

“No, no, it’s just—” she takes in a shaky breath before admitting, “Tony, I’m so worried about him.”

That is not what he expected. Tony takes a beat to recover.

“I’m worried about him too, Nat, but hey, he’s getting help now and-”

“Do you think it’s enough?”

With one question she manages to voice his biggest fear since he signed Peter’s guardianship papers all those months ago.

He tries to sound unaffected when he answers, “If it’s not, I’m not sure what else I can do,” but then his voice cracks on the last word and he finds himself biting back tears of his own.

“Tony, I didn’t mean—”

“I know. You didn’t. I just thought I could be better,” he confesses, staring at a spot above her shoulder, unable to meet her eyes.

“C’mon, don’t do that to yourself.” She reaches out to put a hand on his arm but he twists away.

“Do what? Confront the reality of what I’ve done to the kid? Or what I’ve failed to do for him? An hour ago, he was the one in here crying because I was screaming at him about his grades, of all things. This kid can’t even bring himself to eat, and I’m worried about a high school class? God damn it,” he roars, “I told myself I wasn’t going to do this to him, I swore I’d be better.”

“Stop it, come here.” Now it’s Nat’s turn to pull Tony into her arms as he breathes harshly under the suffocating weight of his guilt.

“I don’t know what to do,” he chokes out into her shoulder. “Any other kid in his situation would be in an inpatient program but where can I send a mutant teenager? I don’t know how to help him.”

“Tony,” Nat pulls back from the hug to look him in the eyes, voice firm, “you have a committed team of geniuses at your disposal. _You_ are a genius. The resources are all here.”

“What if he’s not willing to accept the help that I can offer?” 

“Then we’ll figure it out,” she insists resolutely. Her face softens, and she reaches up to cup his cheek. “Me and every other person on this team would die for that kid. He’s not alone, and neither are you. We’re going to get him through this.”

Tony blows out a long breath. “Together?”

“Together.”

* * *

 Peter has one foot out of the elevator and freezes.

“Um.”

Captain Rogers smiles tightly at him. “Come have a seat, Peter.” He gestures into the common room. “We need to talk to you.”

‘We’ is all of the Avengers plus Miss Potts and his therapist, all doing a terrible job of looking casual. Peter feels like he’s walking into his execution. He sits in the only open spot at the center of a large semi-circle and something about the setup is strangely familiar.

Dr. Banner clears his throat. “Peter, we need to talk about your eating habits.”

The teen immediately jumps back to his feet, livid. “Is this a fucking intervention?” 

Several voices hurriedly reassure him that there’s nothing to worry about before Jaime silences the room with a raised hand.

“Peter, the people in this room care very much about you and they’d like to share some concerns that they have. All they ask is that you listen. Do you think you can do that?”

He choices are to throw a tantrum like a child, or sit here and have a conversation that he's not ready for.

Peter nods curtly and sits back down, posture rigid and hands clasped tightly in his lap.

“Peter, sweetie,” Pepper leans forward but Peter refuses to meet her eyes; he doesn’t want to see the worry there. “It’s been 3 weeks since we found out about the purging, and your therapist tells us that you haven’t gained any weight yet.”

“I don’t need to,” he snaps.

“Yes, you do,” Dr. Banner says slowly. “You are underweight, and you need to gain, at minimum, 10 pounds to no longer meet that classification.”

He swallows roughly. “Look, I’m trying, okay? I’m eating, I’m not purging, I’m not exercising, what more do you want from me?”

“We want you to be honest, Peter,” Natasha says firmly.

“I am being honest!”

“You just lied to us about purging."

“No I didn’t, you guys babysit me every night after dinner, I don’t purge.”

“What about at school?”

Fuck. The color drains from his face. 

“I don’t,” he tries, but it sounds unconvincing even to his own ears.

“Ned told us, Peter,” Bucky confesses quietly.

The teen sees red when he bites out, “Oh, great, so now you’re getting my friends to spy on me?”

Mr. Stark shakes his head. “We didn’t have to, he came to us.”

“He’s worried about you, kiddo,” Steve says gently, “and so are we.”

“There’s nothing to be worried about,” Peter insists, “this is ridiculous.”

“Last week you told me you’re getting flashbacks,” Clint reminds him.

Peter scoffs. “Yeah, and then you ignored me and started talking about your own problems, thanks for that, by the way.” He feels a sick satisfaction at the horror that flashes across the archer’s face. Good. He should feel bad about that.

“There are lots of ways to deal with trauma,” Sam starts calmly, reaching out to put his hand on Clint's shoulder, “sometimes it helps to talk to other people that have gone through the same thing.”

“And,” Jaime adds, “sometimes it doesn’t. That’s okay. We’re here to figure out what works for you.”

Peter shakes his head, frustrated. Yes, the flashbacks and the nightmares are bad, but he already hated himself when those started; he doesn't see the point of focusing on them. 

“Before we can start working on processing trauma and grief, we have to get you physically feeling better,” Jaime continues. “That’s why your eating disorder has to be the first priority.”

“My WHAT?" he shrieks, frozen in place. "Is that what you think this is? A fucking eating disorder? Have you all lost your minds?” He’s searching the faces of everyone in the room; they all look deadly serious; this isn’t just some joke then.

“Peter, buddy,” Sam is looking at him strangely. “You force yourself to throw up after eating.”

“I’m not fucking bulimic, okay, I don’t binge on junk food.”

“Eating disorders manifest themselves in lots of different ways, Peter,” Jamie tells him in her soothing tone. “We can talk about a specific diagnosis at another time, but right now I need you to understand that you have an eating disorder.”

“No, I don’t.” Peter’s voice sounds small and meek instead of determined and resolute like he planned.

Mr. Stark makes a frustrated noise. “You’re afraid of gaining weight despite being underweight, you over exercise even when your bones are broken, you purge in secret, and you only eat when you’re forced to.”

And hearing it all spelled out like that is…a lot.

Peter shakes his head, can practically see the confusion on his own face.

“No…that’s—I don’t… it’s not an eating disorder.”

“Then what is it, Peter?” Pepper asks desperately. “Please help us understand.”

“I just…I can’t.”

“Can’t what? Eat?”

Peter nods.

“Why not?” Jaime’s gentle voice prompts.

He opens his mouth to respond but can’t bring himself to say the words.

“Is it because you think you don’t deserve to eat?” Nat wonders.

The air whooshes out of Peter’s lungs like he got punched in the gut.

“I can’t do this,” he gasps and bolts for the stairs.

A strong hand wraps around his bicep before he can get there. Steve is staring down at him, expression firm but eyes kind.

“We’re not done here, Peter.”

“I am.” The teen rips his arm free and shoves the super soldier when he tries to reach for his arm again. Steve smacks into the back of one of the couches and it creaks under the impact. Peter flees. 

He takes the stairs one whole flight at a time and slams his bedroom door as hard as he can behind him. He’s elbow-deep in his sock drawer before he remembers that Mr. Stark took his blades.

“Fuck,” he growls, slamming the heel of his palm onto his thigh and relishing in the bruising pain. When he goes to repeat the motion, FRIDAY interrupts him.

“Mr. Parker, if you continue I am required to alert boss.”

“Fuck off.” He screams at the ceiling, biting back more cries of frustration when he hears Jamie approach his door. 

“Sorry, Peter, but I can’t let things end like that. Can I come in?”

He doesn’t respond, which is apparently as good as granting permission because she enters the room and comes to sit on the floor next to him.

“What’s going through your mind right now?” she asks softly.

Might as well be honest at this point. “I want to rip my arms open.”

“Why?”

“I messed up. Everyone is mad. My head is too loud. I need to hurt.”

“What makes you think you messed up and everyone is mad? Because that’s not the impression I got.”

“I ran away when they were all just trying to be nice, I shoved Captain America into a couch, I disappointed everyone.”

“They’re not angry with you, Peter, they’re just worried.”

He digs his nails into his palm.

Jamie makes a sound of recognition. “You don’t want them to be worried.” It’s not a question.

Peter shakes his head.

“But you do understand that there’s reason for them to be worried.”

He nods.

“Do you see the disconnect here, Peter? Those people down there care about you and you’re displaying some concerning behaviors, doesn’t it make sense that they’d worry about you?”

 “They don’t get it!” Peter startles himself with his own shout.

Jaime is unaffected, as always. “What don’t they get?”

“They keep bringing all of this attention on me and I can’t take it; I don’t want the attention. I don’t deserve it.”

“What do you mean you don’t deserve it?”

“I don’t deserve to have people care about me.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because I’m a bad person!” Peter explodes.

“I disagree, but why don’t you tell me why you think you’re bad,” Jaime suggests evenly.

Peter scoffs. “God, where do I start? I’m a sorry excuse for a superhero, I’m too stupid to keep up at school, I’m a terrible, selfish friend, I make life hell for everyone around me, I’m mean, I lash out at people, I can’t stop throwing up my food, and everyone around me fucking dies!”

Jaime doesn’t respond for a moment and Peter finally looks up at her, confused.

“Oh, was that all?”

Peter’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Wasn’t that enough?”

“Sure, if you say so,” she shrugs calmly. “But not one of the things you listed makes you a bad person.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Ok, so what if I am wrong.” Another easy shrug. “Let’s say you’re a bad person. Does that mean you deserve to be treated badly?”

“Yeah.”

“What about the bad guys that you stop from committing crimes; do they deserve to be treated badly, too?”

Shit. “No, but that’s different.”

“How?”

“I’m supposed to be better!” Peter cries. “I’m supposed to be smarter, and faster, and stronger, and if I’m not then I’m failing and all I’ve been doing lately is failing and I can’t stop. I’m a bad person; I don’t deserve compassion, I don’t deserve to fucking eat, I don’t deserve to exist—"

Peter freezes, chest heaving. Fuck, he shouldn’t have said that.

“Peter,” Jaime starts, suddenly very seriously. “What do you mean by you don’t deserve to exist?”

“Nothing, I didn’t mean it like that,” he mumbles.

“Please don’t just tell me what you think I want to hear.”

And Peter is startled by how easily she just called him out.

“If you’re suicidal, I need to know about it. You may not care about your safety right now, but I do. Your guardian does. Every resident of this tower does. Your friends do. If not for your own sake, be honest with me for them.”

The fight deflates from him. “Look, I’m not going to kill myself, okay?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Whatever, so what I think about it sometimes? It’s not like I could actually do it if I wanted to. I heal too fast.”

She considers him. “Have you thought about how you would do it?”

And Peter knows a loaded question when he hears one. He has to be careful.

“No, it’s not like I dwell on it. S’just sometimes I think it would be easier. Most of the time I know that’s not true, though.”

“And what do you do during those times you think it might be true?”

Cut. Purge. Exercise until I pass out.

“I listen to music or find something to tinker with.”

“That’s good, I’m glad you have things that can distract you. Have you thought about going to Tony, or Pepper, or anyone else when you’re feeling that way?”

Absolutely not.

He shrugs. “I dunno, don’t want to bother them.”

“They’d be bothered if they found your body somewhere,” Jamie points out bluntly. “You’re not a burden for needing help sometimes.”

“You don’t know that they think that way.”

“They’ve said those exact words to the both of us.”

“They could just be saying that,” he insists.

“Peter, listen to me. I know you can’t see it right now, but you are not a bad person. You’re sick. Those disordered voices in your head are manipulating you into believing that you deserve to hurt and that is not true. It’s okay that you don’t believe me yet, but, I promise you, we’re going to get there. I need you to stick around so we can put in the work together, okay? Now I have a big favor to ask.”

This is it, she’s going to force him into the hospital because he’s a minor.

“The next time you start thinking that maybe things would be easier if you didn’t exist, I want you to try as hard as you can to reach out to someone. You don’t have to tell them what’s going on if you’re not ready, you don’t have to talk about anything at all. You could just sit in the same room as them. Just don’t let yourself be alone. Does that sound doable?”

Peter, overwhelmed with relief about not being forced into treatment, nods.

“Yeah, I can do that.”

She smiles encouragingly. “I know you can. I’m going to go down and let the team know that we discussed everything we had to for now. I’ll see you again on Thursday unless you need me before then, okay?”

“Okay.”

She’s nearly out the door when Peter calls, softly, “thank you.”

Jamie faces him with another warm smile. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

 

“Wilson, I swear to god…”

“Look, man. All I’m saying is bullets are faster than arrows. Plain and simple.” Sam throws a piece of popcorn at the archer who twists around to catch it in his mouth.

“That doesn’t mean shit if the shooter is inaccurate,” Clint points out from his spot next to Natasha on the couch. She is pointedly ignoring the conversation while scrolling through Netflix to find something suitable for movie night.

“Way easier to be accurate with a gun than with a medieval hunting tool. S’physics, right Stark?”

Tony throws his hands up. “Oh no, don’t get me involved.”

“C’mon,” Sam urges, “we need an expert opinion.”

“The only time you refer to me as an expert is when it’s convenient for you.”

“Yeah, and it’s convenient right now.”

Tony rolls his eyes and abandons the StarkPad he’s been staring at for the past 30 minutes. “Shooting with a bow requires much more physical strength than the average handgun, but other than that, there’s no reason one weapon would be more accurate than the other.”

“But guns are faster,” Sam insists.

“In most cases, sure,” Tony agrees with an easy shrug. “But no one is as accurate of a shooter as Legolas is with that bow, so this whole argument is irrelevant.”

Clint holds a smug middle finger up to Sam who throws more popcorn in retaliation.

“Alright children, that’s enough,” Cap snatches the popcorn from Sam.

“Oh shit, now you’ve done it,” Clint warns, “grandpa’s angry.”

“You know what, Hawkass?”

The room erupts into exclamations of feigned shock. “Woo, grandpa’s got a potty mouth” and the inevitable “watch your language!”

“I hate this team,” Steve grumbles to himself.

“Sure gramps,” Tony chortles.

Natasha had finally picked a movie and hit play when the lights go up and the screen goes dark.

“FRIDAY?”

“Mr. Parker is requesting assistance on the roof,” she explains robotically.

“I thought he was doing homework?” Bucky wonders.

“Why the hell is he on the roof?” Tony is already is motion, the rest of the team close behind, worry coursing through their ranks at this unusual situation.

There’s a pause before the AI responds.

“Sir, I fear that Peter is in imminent danger and I must insist you hurry. I have reason to believe this is a life and death matter.” Now FRIDAY’s voice is as panicked as it’s ever been.

“Details, FRIDAY,” Steve demands in his Captain America voice, sprinting up the stairs, Bucky and Thor on his heels. “Who’s up there with him?”

“Mr. Parker is alone.”

Tony’s blood runs cold. “Go, Cap!”

The super soldier doubles his efforts and takes the last few flights in 3 large bounds before bursting through the roof access door, eyes rapidly searching for his youngest teammate. When he finds him, it’s not what he expected. The teen is sitting perfectly still on the ledge of the roof with his arms wrapped around his knees, staring out into the city lights.  

“Peter?” Bucky breaks the silence.

He doesn’t acknowledge them.

The rest of the team has joined them, now, and they exchange worried glances.

“Pete?” This time it’s Tony stepping forward. “You alright?”

Still no answer.

Sam tries, “FRIDAY told us you needed help, Peter. What’s going on?”

Things have been tense since the team confronted Peter on Monday and they’ve been trying to give him space. That was only two days ago and it’s already clear that that was the wrong move.

“You’re scaring me, kiddo,” Tony admits. “Please talk to us.”

The slightest shake of Peter’s head has the Avengers letting out a collective breath. He can communicate. That’s a step.

“Can you look at us so we can see your face?” Sam requests.

Another head shake.

Bucky steps forward again. “Would this be easier without an audience?”

There’s a pause. Peter nods once.

Through some unspoken agreement, Tony, Bucky, and Sam stay on the roof while the rest of the team files back inside where they will undoubtedly be watching the scene unfold on the security footage.

“Alright, Pete,” Sam takes a few more steps toward the teen. “Do you think you can come down from there?”

He shakes his head.

“Why not?”

A shrug.

“You have to give us something here, kiddo,” Tony pleads. “We can’t help if we don’t know what’s going on.”

“I can’t.” The response is so quiet that only Bucky hears him.

“Can’t what?”

Peter turns his head so that he’s facing forward, still unable to meet anyone’s eyes, but at least his profile is visible to the men.

Tony is taken aback by the blankness on Peter’s face. There is no trace of the usual bubbliness that he’s come to associate with the kid, just an expressionless mask. He prefers the tears to this, this nothingness.

“Can’t what, Peter?” Bucky repeats.

When there’s no response from him, Tony pleads again. “Peter, please, I don’t want to ask Barnes to forcibly get you off that ledge but I will if I have to. Please just come down here so we can figure this out.”

And maybe it’s the unsteadiness in his voice that does it, or maybe the kid just can’t hold back anymore. Peter bursts into tears, silence broken.

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” he wails, gripping his hair so tightly his knuckles turn white.

Bucky takes that as his cue. He crosses the roof in three quick strides, jumps the 6 feet onto the ledge, gathers Peter in his arms, and is back on the roof all in a few seconds. His legs crumple with relief when the kid is no longer in immediate danger and the both of them slide to the ground, Peter still in hysterics.

“Please, I need it to stop, please make it stop.”

“Shh, shh, you’re okay, I got you,” Bucky whispers into his hair.

“I can’t do this anymore, I’m so tired,” he gasps between sobs. “I don’t want to keep living like this, please, please.”

Tony drops to his knees in front of his kid, Sam not far behind, completely heartbroken over the pain that Peter is experiencing. He knew things were bad but seeing the reality of what that looks like is hard to watch and he finds himself holding back tears of his own.

“I know, pal, I know it’s hard but we’re gonna get you through this,” Bucky continues to try and soothe the kid, trying not to think about the times he was the one begging for the pain to stop. “You’ve got the strongest team on the planet on your side, you’re gonna be okay.”

Peter is shaking his head. “I can't, I can't do it, I just want to die," he pauses, gasping for air around hiccuping breaths, "I'm so scared, please, make it stop I can't fight it anymore, I don't want to fight it anymore."

“I know you’re scared, Peter, but you just did an amazing thing,” Sam tells earnestly. “You recognized that you needed help and you got FRIDAY to notify us. That’s strong as hell, kiddo.”

“Don’t say that!” Peter begs. “I’m not strong, I’m pathetic, I’m weak. I want to throw myself off this fucking roof.”

“But, you didn’t,” Tony reminds him.

“I know how hard that is, pal, and I’m so proud of you for still being here when your head is screaming at you to end it. It’s so hard to fight but you’ve been doing it all on your own and now you don’t have to. We’re here, Peter,” Bucky says firmly, “we’re here.”

* * *

 

 “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty, I have a surprise for you.”

Peter grumbles from under his mountain of blankets. It’s too early for this.

He peeks his head out from under the blanket, squinting at the natural light in the room. The Medbay has some of the best lighting in the Tower, according to Steve.

Mr. Stark is grinning at him from the foot of his hospital bed, holding an orange pill bottle in his hand.

“You guys finished the meds?” He asks, a note of hope creeping through.

“Just completed the final trial last night,” the man says proudly. He tosses Peter the bottle. “One pill, once a day. We’ll start with 20 milligrams and reevaluate in a few weeks, but that should be about right.”

Peter accepts a cup of water from the man and swallows one of the small white tablets.

“That’s not what Bucky is on,” he points out.

“Bucky weighs twice as much as you, kiddo.”

“Right.”

“Here.” Mr. Stark holds his hands out and Peter tosses the bottle back to him. “I know you know this, but don’t expect these to work right away. You’ve got to give your blood some time to build the serotonin levels back up before you’ll notice a difference.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“I’m serious, Pete. Anti-depressants can be tricky. Don’t get discouraged if they’re not perfect; we’ll get there.”

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter smiles gratefully. “And tell Dr. Banner I said thanks, too.”

“Why don’t you tell him yourself?”

Peter sits up fully, now, excitement in his eyes. “I’m getting out today?”

“Yup, just got word from your doctors. They see no reason to keep you here passed 72 hours.”

“Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming?”

The man laughs. “There’s always a but, kiddo.” He sits on the edge of the bed and pats Peter’s knee. “What do you think about an outpatient program?”

Peter hesitates, twisting his blanket in his lap. “Like…an eating disorder program?”

“It’s called Summit, it’s right here in Queens; you’d be there from 8am to noon, 6 days a week, and you’d still be seeing Jaime every other day.”

“6 days a week? What about school?”

“Your health is far more important than school right now, bud, I’ve already cleared that with your teachers. I have everything in place to get you caught up when you’re ready, so the only thing you have to worry about right now is getting better.”

Peter bites his lip, considering.

This is exactly what he needs, he knows that. He needs extra support right now if he wants to start feeling better. And he does want to feel better. Most of the time. But, treatment centers are for people whose eating disorders have taken over their lives, and Peter doesn't believe that he qualifies. What will everyone think when he walks through the door, all of his fat on display? Is he even sick enough for treatment? Does he even have anything to recover from?

“M’scared, Mr. Stark,” he whispers.

The man scoots closer to Peter so he can wrap his arms around him.

“I know, Pete,” he murmurs into the teen’s curls. “Recovery is scary. But you’ve already proven that you’re strong as hell and willing to fight, this is just the next step, and I’ll be with you the whole way.”

Peter takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of Mr. Stark’s cologne, feeling safe and secure, and for the first time in a long time—hopeful.

“When do I start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it y'all, we made it!
> 
> I can't believe my first fic is finally complete; I've had this story swirling around in my head forever and now it's out in the world! This last chapter gave me the most trouble and I can't say it's exactly what I wanted it to be, but I so hope I gave you guys the ending you were looking for.  
> Speaking of endings...there is a sequel in the works! I have two chapters finished, but I need to finish outlining the rest of them before I start posting. That shouldn't take longer than two weeks, but feel free to come over to tumblr to ask for updates: thechoicewasallmine
> 
> I can't thank you all enough for the incredible response to my writing; I am so humbled by all of your kind words. You all inspire me to write to the best of my abilities and you encourage me to keep typing even when I'm feeling down about my writing. Thank you to everyone that has left a comment, especially those that made the effort to comment on every chapter; it really means so much to me. Every kudo makes me smile and I often come back to read comments on bad days. I could never imagine I'd get this much of a response on my first real fic, I thought I'd be lucky to get 9 kudos, and ended up with over 900 (wtf!!!!) before the story was even finished. You're all rockstars and I am eternally grateful for the support. 
> 
> And a final note: Peter is in for a long road, but he's going to get better; he deserves to get better, and if, at any point in this story you related with Peter's struggle, you deserve to get better, too. Recovery is hard, but it is possible. I love you guys.


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